Part 3

They continued to drive slowly through the town. Houses of all shapes and styles of architecture were huddled together. Some were old with pointed roofs, gables, and bulging bay windows. Mr. Lurie admired the ones patterned after Swiss chalets, happy reminders of a boyhood vacation in Switzerland. None of the Luries looked with favor on the newer houses, squat, flat-roofed dwellings with large picture windows.

“They are out of place in this lovely mountain setting,” Mrs. Lurie said, but added as an afterthought, “but they’re probably divine to live in.”

Fran, undiscouraged by his passengers’ preoccupation with houses old and new, continued to enlighten them.

“That’s where they print the _Aspen Times_,” and he pointed out a wooden structure reminiscent of an earlier era. “It comes out once a week, but it’s been right here since the silver boom days.”

Judy had made several attempts to break in on Fran’s monologue. She thought quickly. “By the way,” she said with elaborate nonchalance, “You wouldn’t happen to know where that cute little theater is—I’m surprised you didn’t point that out!”

“Oh, the Isis! We didn’t happen to pass it. But they have movies there—the greatest!” Judy gave up, as Fran continued.

“That big gray stone building next to it is the Jerome Hotel. When they built it in 1881, it was a show place. That’s when silver was all there was in Aspen. It was elegant! It’s still the finest place in Aspen, fixed up modern today with a half dozen or more annexes. And it’s got a swimming pool!” he added impressively.

“Can anyone use the pool?” Judy asked, “or is it just for the hotel guests?”

“It’s mostly for the guests, but the music festival people get in somehow.”

They had now reached the end of town and Fran stopped in front of a plain little cottage with an overhanging veranda. “Here we are,” he said, jumping out to unload the car.

“Is that ours?” Judy asked, considerably let down. But her mother, it was apparent, felt differently.

“Isn’t it lovely, John!” she exclaimed. “Real Victorian. Look at that fine old grille railing on the roof—”

Mrs. Lurie lost no time in entering the house, her husband following. She had to know at once.

There it was, a large, ebony, upright piano that dwarfed the parlor sprinkled liberally with overstuffed chairs and a small sofa, more chairs, tables with artificial flowers, lamps of all kinds. But Mrs. Lurie was radiant.

“They gave us the piano after all!”

“Yes, darling,” her husband said, equally happy. “Perhaps all that letter-writing helped.” Then he frowned as if he suddenly remembered. “It may not prove an unmixed blessing. Remember the conditions? Students must be permitted to practice any hour of the day.” He smiled, “Knowing how pressed they are for practice space, they’ll probably start at dawn!”

But Mrs. Lurie’s enthusiasm remained undampened. She’d have her two hours!

Meanwhile Fran brought up the last of the cartons and luggage and set them on the porch where Judy was gazing raptly at the mountains.

“Any time you want to climb,” he said shyly.

“I’d love to, but I expect to be rather busy—I’m going to act.” She paused for the effect.

Fran looked puzzled. “Where?”

“Right here in Aspen, at the Barn.”

“You mean Mr. Crowley’s summer theater?”

“That’s right. I’m in the company.” Languorously, the girl smoothed back a few wisps of hair in an unmistakably theatrical gesture.

Fran grinned. “I guessed you were kidding.”

“Kidding!” Judy frowned indignantly. “It happens to be true. Mr. Crowley is a friend of my father and he himself arranged for me to join his theater.”

“When was that?”

“A few weeks ago.”

“Oh! That explains it.”

A strange note in the boy’s voice caught Judy’s attention. “Explains what?” she asked cautiously.

“It’s funny you didn’t hear about it,” Fran muttered. He eyed her unhappily. “There isn’t going to be any summer theater. Mr. Crowley couldn’t raise enough money to swing it. He went back to Denver three days ago.”

“Oh!” Judy felt the blood mounting to her face. There were questions she wanted to ask but she didn’t trust herself to speak.

“I’m sorry about it, kid,” Fran murmured. “But don’t let it get you down. Maybe next year Crowley will raise the money and you’ll be back as leading lady.” He edged off the porch back to his bus. “Aspen isn’t a bad place, even without a theater. You’ll have a lot of fun. And don’t forget, whenever you want to climb—” He was at the wheel racing the motor. The bus pulled away, gathered speed, and disappeared around the corner far up the street. Slowly, Judy turned and dragged herself into the house.

“Judy? Judy? Where are you?”

“You haven’t seen the house! How do you like the piano? Ugly, but it has a wonderful tone! From what I just learned about the students coming here to practice, you’ll escape playing without even a struggle,” her mother rattled on.

“Oh, I’ll play sometimes.”

It was not only the voice bordering on despair but her features distorted in pain that made her father eye her keenly.

“Judy, why this face of gloom on this lovely, happy occasion?”

“Fran just told me that the theater is all washed up—that Mr. Crowley went back to Denver—” She couldn’t go on.

A fleeting uncertainty passed over Minna’s face but her father smiled reassuringly.

“I’d like to know one way or the other. Can’t you telephone or telegraph—or something,” the girl pleaded.

“The opening is probably postponed!” her father said convincingly. “That often happens with a new venture. Of course Jim went to Denver—that’s where he has all his connections.” Again he gave her that warm, reassuring smile. “Suppose you don’t get started for a week or two! So much the better. You’ll get a chance to discover Aspen, walking miles in this wonderful, bracing climate and have fun with us.”

“You’re a real cure for the blues, Father. Grandma once called you the incurable optimist.”

Her father raised his eyebrows. “That doesn’t sound particularly complimentary!”

“But it was meant in the nicest way. Grandma said Minna was a worrier and that she was lucky to be married to a man like you.”

By nightfall, basic unpacking was finished and, with no time or opportunity to purchase food, they decided to go out for dinner. They walked aimlessly through several streets trying to discover one of the colorful restaurants Fran had mentioned—Little Nell, Golden Horn, Mario’s. From the latter, as they stood on the sidewalk, voices were heard singing operatic arias! That settled it. They went in.

Judy’s parents were enchanted not only by the atmosphere but even more by the waiters who sang as they served and again at interludes between courses. The food was new and exotic and Judy ate with rapt enjoyment, the problem of Mr. Crowley and the theater temporarily forgotten.

She glanced occasionally at her mother and father. They were incomprehensible! Their food grew cold as they talked to the waiters. Suppose they were studying opera at the Aspen Music School! Her father finally succumbed to the aroma of the good-smelling dinner but her mother, between listening and applauding, found no chance to eat.

“I like opera, Father,” Judy told him, savoring the last mouthful on her plate. “Remember how I adored ‘Pagliacci’ when I heard it at the Metropolitan Opera House with Grandma and Grandpa! There was scenery and costumes, and what a story! That was Opera!”

Her father laughed. “A lover of music doesn’t need trappings of scenery and costume to enjoy opera. Your mother would rather sing or listen to singing than eat.”

Judy shook her head. “After all,” she argued, “when you eat, you should enjoy eating, not have to listen—to applaud.”

“Minna,” John addressed his wife, “I think Judy has a point there. Please eat your dinner before it’s utterly spoiled.”

They returned from Mario’s relaxed and gay, Minna still humming some of the melodies. Opening the screen door, a letter fell on the porch. Judy picked it up, quickly glancing at the name of the sender.

“It’s a special delivery from Mr. Crowley, Father, for you.” Her face paled.

Mr. Lurie read it silently while his daughter watched the pained disappointment deepen on his face.

“Judy dear,” he hesitated for a moment then went on quickly as if wishing to have the unhappy business over as fast as possible. “It seems Fran was right. There will be no summer theater,” and he handed her the letter. She read, tears blurring the words. “The backers faded away.... I’m so sorry about your daughter. I know how these kids are, what a disappointment this must be. Tell her next year, cross my heart....”

Judy was desolate. It wasn’t just the disappointment at not having the opportunity to act: that was bad enough. But what would she do with herself in Aspen for a whole summer? The weeks ahead loomed empty and void.

Her parents tried to cheer her up. “There’s a whole new world for you to discover out here,” her father said. “A girl with your curiosity and interests needn’t have a dull moment.”

“And I’m sure there are young people your age in Aspen,” her mother added. “With a little effort, you won’t have any trouble finding companions.”

Judy didn’t argue with them. What was the use? They had tried their best. It wasn’t their fault that Mr. Crowley’s theater had fallen through. “I have to make the best of it,” she said, and added realistically, “Don’t make them miserable.” Then she further cautioned herself, “Assume a virtue, if you have it not.”

The next few days passed quickly, even for Judy. The house had to be made livable. “The kitchen is as old as Methuselah,” Mrs. Lurie said, “and has the conveniences of the Stone Age.” But once everything was done and food supplies stocked, Judy found her parents still “tearing around like mad,” a phrase she used in her recent letter to her grandparents.

There were faculty meetings, rehearsals to be arranged. John had to set up programs for his newly organized quartet, and Minna was in daily conference with Mme. Rousse and her pupils.

After four days of comparative quiet, the music students of the School began to arrive with clockwork regularity at two-hour intervals. Judy saw them sometimes, deadly serious as they rushed out after practice to some other task or perhaps to a date. They were intent and enthusiastic young people but to Judy they seemed hoary with age and responsibilities.

For want of anything better to do, she threw herself into organizing the household regime. Washing dishes and making beds were her department. Her father used the carpet-sweeper and mopped up the kitchen floor with giant strokes more suitable for a shuffleboard. There was laundry for Minna to iron whenever someone remembered to borrow a car and call for their bundle at the laundromat.

Judy never wondered how her mother managed to prepare their meals. Mrs. Lurie did that and many other things besides with an ease, a sleight of hand that was slightly deceptive. She worked hard to get everything done and yet find time for her arduous profession. She had set herself the task of singing in opera, a dream possible of realization here at Aspen, but she doggedly pursued her domestic tasks. For breakfast she whipped up some wonderful pancakes and for sheer quantity consumption, Judy held the family record. Lunch was tuna fish, an egg, or a salad, usually prepared by Judy for herself. Dinners meant hamburgers or chops broiled over their outside grille, with soup and vegetables frozen or out of a can, milk, and fresh fruit. Once a week she went all out to bake a chicken or something in a casserole, which she optimistically expected to see them through for days. It rarely did.

New friends and some old ones dropped in nearly every night, that is, when there were neither lectures nor concerts scheduled. It was a busy, full life for Judy’s parents.

But to Judy, the prospect of spending an entire summer doing simple household chores and wandering about sightseeing alone was far from cheering.

Each morning her mother left the house, visibly disturbed. “Judy dear, I’m planning to take you to the pool a few afternoons during the week. We’re dying to go ourselves. It’s already past nine. We’ve got to rush. Good-bye, darling.” The door closed. A moment later her mother’s head reappeared at the door.

“Forget anything, Mother?”

“No, dear. I just wanted to tell you that once our schedules are definitely arranged, we won’t be so hectically busy.” There was the impatient honking of a horn from the car picking them up. Her mother hurriedly left.

Another week passed, and there was no change in the absorbing activity in the lives of Minna and John Lurie. There were many famous people in Aspen, artists, musicians, composers, and to Judy it seemed her parents had to meet them all!

Even during dinner in the evening, they were involved in their own interests, often trying to draw Judy into their conversation. Separated during much of the day by their individual activities, they talked with enthusiasm of discovering this one or that one. But Judy was bursting to tell them of her discoveries: the Chairlift where she spent many hours each day, eating her lunch or writing letters. Sometimes she sketched the tourists as they jumped on the moving chairs of the Lift and disappeared among the lofty mountains.

“Yes,” her mother said absently, “we know the Chairlift. We pass it every day.”

“Some day we’ll go up and see that famous sundeck thirteen thousand feet high,” her father casually promised and went on talking of other matters.

“Now this Mr. William Primrose. I’ve spoken of him before, Judy. He’s the greatest viola player in the world!” Her father’s eyes shone with the adulation he felt for this great artist. “He’s to be the soloist at several of the Festival concerts. You’ll be with us, Judy—something you’ll remember all your life!”

Nor was her mother to be outdone. “Judy, you’ll never know how wonderful the clarinet can be until you hear Reginald Kell! When he plays, his tone more nearly resembles the human voice than anything in the world—so delicate, so pure! He’s the greatest, the most celebrated clarinetist!”

They tried to interest her in Darius Milhaud, the greatest living composer of modern music.

“Everyone you and Father mention seems to be the greatest,” Judy had interrupted, a wicked gleam in her eye. She remembered the many reproofs she had received for using just such superlatives.

“But they just happen to be,” her father said, brushing her remark aside. “Darius Milhaud,” he began but stopped, noticing the blank look on Judy’s face.

“You must have heard his music at concerts or on the radio!” her mother interjected.

As Judy shook her head, her father went on patiently.

“He’s a very great composer of modern music, a Frenchman, and teaches conducting and composition to advanced students. It’s a great honor to have such a man on our faculty!”

He looked at his daughter hopefully. She seemed interested at last.

“What I tried to tell you before you interrupted me, this great man is coming to our house next week. He is permitting my quartet and me to play his newest composition in manuscript form. He’s coming with his wife, a former actress, a fine artist in her own right.”

For a week they talked of nothing else. Whom among their friends should they invite? Who would call for the composer and his wife, since it was well known he walked little? What should they serve after the music? The house must shine and, indeed, late in the night John polished floors and furniture until they gleamed.

When the great evening came, the little parlor was crowded with friends long before the honored guests arrived.

As Darius Milhaud walked into the room accompanied by his charming wife, everyone rose. Milhaud walked slowly; his heavy body was crippled by arthritis and he leaned heavily on the arm of his wife.

He greeted Minna and John Lurie warmly and with a few pleasant words to the guests put everyone at ease—that is, everyone except Judy, who stared uncomfortably at the composer’s face, so white and unhealthy-looking.

After some general talk, Milhaud gave the signal and the music began. The composition took nearly an hour and to Judy, accustomed to the more melodic harmonies of an older school, the music was extremely trying. She was convinced that the quartet, including her father, was playing wrong notes! Otherwise how to account for such terrible sounds? She squirmed wretchedly on the small couch, wedged in by former students of Milhaud who, judging by the expression on their faces, were literally in heaven! For a few blissful moments Judy found herself dozing, only to be rudely wakened by a dissonance that shattered her.

But she found compensation at last! She watched the composer. She couldn’t take her eyes off his hands. How beautiful they were as he moved them gently, guiding the players. She no longer tried to listen to music she neither liked nor understood. She glanced at Mrs. Milhaud and was deeply touched. There was something in her face, her eyes, her whole being, fastened upon her husband. As the hour advanced and the room grew chilly, she unobtrusively rose and put a plaid shawl upon her husband’s knees. Seeing them so, husband and wife, Judy somehow thought of her grandparents.

The piece was finished. Everyone clapped and shouted “Bravo!” “It was grand!” “A memorable performance!” “Sure to be an astounding success!”

But the Luries did not have to entertain a celebrity to have music in their home. Friends came to spend a social evening, but invariably brought with them their musical instruments—bass fiddle, cello, violin, clarinet—and stacked them on a bed or on chairs. Everyone cheerfully pushed the parlor furniture about, carried the music stands from the closet under the hall stairs, switched lamps from there to here for better lighting. There was talk, gossip of the great ones, a little politics and world affairs, but mostly music.

Judy went to her room shortly after the first pleasant greetings were over. Sometimes she fell asleep in spite of the music played fortissimo right under her room.

She could always tell when it was eleven o’clock, by the clatter of the teacups. Her mother was serving coffee and cake. Why are musicians always so hungry, she wondered, even as she bit greedily into a large slice of cake her mother had thoughtfully brought her.

She opened her diary. Among its pages lay the letter from Mr. Crowley. She read it again, then briefly wrote in her diary.

“I went to the Theater Barn yesterday, just to see it! It was just as I dreamed it would be, except the heavy padlock on the door and the sign ‘For Rent.’ Poor Mr. Crowley!”

And it seemed to Judy that she had no sooner fallen sound asleep when she was awakened by the crash of chords. The early-bird piano student had arrived for morning practice.

5 A RUDE YET PLEASANT AWAKENING

By the end of the second week Judy knew every street in Aspen. She had stumbled over the uneven slabs of stone that passed for sidewalks while gazing absently into shop windows displaying curious articles imported from all over the world.

She had even ventured beyond the confines of the town itself and paid her own visit to the Tent, before her official attendance at a concert. How inadequate had been Fran’s “Very pretty!” It was stunning. The sunshine filtering through the open flap bathed the colored sides of the tent and supports in luscious gold.

Not more than a few hundred yards from the Tent was a queer-looking building of octagonal design. Approaching it, she asked one of the bystanders, “What do they do in there?”

“Lectures,” was the terse reply. “It’s the Seminar Building. But don’t try to listen in on them,” he said, apparently amused at the expression on Judy’s keen and inquisitive face.

“I see you’ve got a sketch pad,” he went on. “If you are interested in art, you’ll find the walls lined with paintings—American subjects—very fine.” and with a nod, he was gone.

She went in and remained, examining the paintings long after the students and visitors left.

One day she got up enough courage to go into the Jerome Hotel. Assuming an air of confidence, which she was far from feeling, she followed some ladies entering the lobby and doggedly kept at their heels until they reached the pool.

How blue it looked under the dazzling sun! As fresh and cool as the forests on Aspen Mountain not far in the distance! Guests sat on the lawn beside the pool, their sunburnt bodies shaded by bright, colored umbrellas. They were laughing, talking, eating.... Shouts from the pool. She felt so alone. It was not the first time she recalled her grandmother’s words.

Monday morning came. Would this be another week of half-kept promises?

At breakfast her mother said brightly, “Judy, I have some news for you. I just heard about a camp and I met the girl who runs it. She’s charming and I took such a fancy to her.”

“A camp? Here in Aspen?” Judy asked, interested, but a little cautious. “What kind of a camp?”

“It’s a day camp. The hours are from eight-thirty to one o’clock, and it’s just been a Godsend to the mothers and the children. It’s called the Festival Day Camp.”

Judy’s face was a study. Her mother couldn’t possibly mean those little tots in the station wagon she had frequently passed on the road—the youngsters noisily piping their camp song, “We’re the Festival Day Camp, F-E-S-T-I-V-A-L.”

“How old are the children?”

Mrs. Lurie’s enthusiasm was slightly chilled by the ominous look on her daughter’s face. “Some are quite young, but,” she added hurriedly, “Mrs. Freiborg’s daughter is ten, possibly eleven. I understand they do interesting, creative things.” Mrs. Lurie found it difficult to go on. “It could be fun,” she finished on a note that sounded more like a dirge than a happy conviction.

“What would I be doing at such a camp!” Judy asked scathingly. “Please don’t worry about me, Mother. I am all right as I am.”

“Let’s discuss it later,” her mother pleaded. “This afternoon Mrs. Freiborg is definitely going to pick us up on her way to the pool.”

“Stop scowling, Judy,” her father said, displeased at Judy’s attitude. “Lynne, who runs it, is beautiful and extremely capable. Young as she is, she’s had years of experience. You won’t be just a camper, you’ll get to know Lynne. Her husband is one of the youngest men in our orchestra. They’re a delightful young couple. Mother has practically said you would go. We’re happy to spend the money.” He patted Judy’s shoulder affectionately. “At least you won’t be wandering around Aspen like a lost sheep.”

“But, Father, how can you expect me to go to a camp with such infants?”

“Suppose they are younger than you?” her father asked, trying to see Judy’s point of view. “What of it? While they carry on their activities, you can be doing other things on your own. Differences in age don’t matter as much as you think. We have youngsters and graybeards in our classes. Give it a try.” At the door he paused, “You get out of anything what you put into it.”

Still smarting under the unaccustomed pressure her parents were trying to exert, Judy started making her lunch. In her resentment she forgot the hours, the days of loneliness. She wrapped her sandwich and put it in her bag with pad, pencils, crayons, and change purse. With that awful camp looming on the not too distant horizon, she was determined to have a really good time today. Something exciting! But what? She couldn’t climb mountains by herself. Besides, all the trails were miles away. For a moment she considered Fran and as quickly dismissed him. He was busy all day riding the bus. All he ever did was to wave his hand and smile as he passed her.