DISCOVERY AT ASPEN

1

SO YOU’RE GOING TO ASPEN

Judy Lurie sat cross-legged on the floor of her room surveying the

results of her labor. The room was a mess, even by her easy standards.

But the box containing her last summer’s meager wardrobe had been

thoroughly gone over and everything that could be salvaged was in piles

ready for the family trunk. The empty battered suitcase and the books,

she decided, could wait, since it was still five days before she and her

parents, Minna and John Lurie, were to leave for the summer holiday.

“So you’re going to Aspen!” a familiar voice ejaculated. “How wonderful

for you and John!”

Preoccupied as Judy was, the voices from the living room reached her

dimly at first. Her room, a tiny alcove separated from the living room

by heavy chintz draperies, frequently had its disadvantages. But there

were compensations, too. You could hear and see and yet be delightfully

invisible.

“I wish I were able to go to Colorado!” another voice remarked with a

shade of envy. “How wonderful for you and John.... By the way, where is

John? Is he trying to hide from us?”

“Hide?” her mother repeated, a slight flush spread over the lovely pale

face. “Of course not. He was so sorry, so much music to pack....”

Judy forgot her invisibility and nearly laughed out loud. When her

mother had casually mentioned as they left the lunch table that some of

the girls would be dropping in to say good-bye, her father, with a

let-me-out-of-this look, took refuge in his studio. Lucky father,

probably enjoying a book or a nap or fussing with his viola while she

was imprisoned in this alcove, unless she wished to barge into the

melee....

The voices of the guests were getting louder. Judy got up, stretched her

cramped legs and cautiously pushed a corner of the drapery to one side.

Nobody had gone. Instead the room overflowed with new arrivals. Gifts

were heaped on the piano, purses on the fine mahogany tables, and a

patent-leather bag stood on the mantel, making the Staffordshire dogs

look even more foolish.

“Minna,” one woman was saying, “with that glorious voice of yours you

ought to be a sensation!”

Her mother, surrounded by her guests, smiled happily.

“Not a sensation, but it is a wonderful opportunity for me to study with

Mme. Rousse and to work with some of the advanced pupils. And best of

all, to sing in the opera. As for John, it’s just what he wanted. To

play in the orchestra, have his own quartet and some teaching. It should

be a good summer for all of us, especially since we will have Judy with

us.”

At the mention of her name, Judy listened attentively.

“It’s lovely that she’s going with you; but Judy’s only about fifteen

and a half. Isn’t that rather young to be attending the Aspen Music

School?”

“Oh, she’s not going to attend the school. Fifteen isn’t too young if

one is a serious student but, as a matter of fact, Judy has given up the

piano.” Minna’s sigh was audible through the chintz.

“But she used to play so beautifully!”

“That’s the pity of it.” Her mother went on retelling what Judy knew.

“At the age of ten she was improvising songs and pieces. We thought we

had produced another Mozart. Now she plays when the mood is on. She

claims practicing dulls inspiration.”

There was a slight titter of amusement, but one woman whom Judy had

frequently seen at the house said earnestly, “But _what_ will she do

there, then?”

“Oh, I’m not worried about Judy,” her mother said lightly. “She’s very

resourceful, very intelligent.”

The girl felt a warm glow of satisfaction.

“She reads everything,” her mother went on. “My father considers her his

special vessel for all his accumulated wisdom. Like him, she loves to

sketch, preferably in oils. Now the canvases are left to molder in

Mother’s attic—fortunately not here. I guess it’s anything but music!”

Minna smiled at her questioner, “but Aspen ought to change all that.”

Judy left her listening post trying to stem a feeling of rebellion at

her mother’s words. Mechanically she began to straighten up the room and

noticed the matching scarf of the new party dress which she had

pressured her mother into buying for her. “Very well, for concerts

then,” her mother had said as she finally succumbed. Judy hoped that

both she and the dress were destined for more exciting occasions than

mere concerts! The thought of the dress cheered her. She wished it

weren’t already packed in the trunk, so that she could try it on again.

The scarf would do. She draped it around her shoulders to suggest the

dress and rubbed the dull surface of her mirror.

“A real treasure from Colonial days,” her grandmother had said when she

gave it to her. Well, maybe so; the frame was certainly beautiful, but

the smoky surface didn’t help her visualize how dazzling she would look,

the steel blue bringing out the deep blue of her eyes, the tight bodice

and the billowy skirt, making her small waist look smaller still.

She turned her head to one side. Hmmm. The nose was passable. The eyes,

well, she knew they were her best feature. But why hadn’t she Mother’s

creamy, pale skin instead of this healthy, dusky glow! She touched the

thick brown hair held firmly by a rubber band. A pony tail was all right

but some day her mother would weaken and she would get that permanent. A

long, soft pageboy would hide these bony shoulders.

She folded the scarf and laid it on her day bed. Then she wedged herself

into the small Boston rocker, the first of her antique possessions. She

rocked gently, repeating the question her mother had not answered. “What

would she do in Aspen?” She wasn’t so sure about the blessedness of

belonging to a family so entirely dedicated to music. Her growing

misgivings had been heightened by her recent visit with her

grandparents. Again she thought of what her grandmother had said. “Your

father and mother will be busy all day with rehearsals, teaching,

concerts, parties night and day. Why not spend the summer with us as

you’ve done for years? You love the sea, racing the dog on the beach. I

need you in the garden and your cousins will be back again for a visit.

The youngsters on the block want you to teach them to swim—fifty cents a

lesson.”

Why, then, Judy wondered, had she given up so quickly a summer where she

had been so happy in the past? Of course going to Aspen meant a trip to

the West, to Colorado, the Rockies. The West was romantic. And her

schoolmates were doing exciting things for the summer. One was going to

a ranch in Wyoming. Her best friend was going to a work camp in Vermont.

But these things cost money and Judy knew there was none to spare.

One thing had influenced her above everything. When her parents received

the invitation to join the staff at the Aspen Music School, the first

thought of her mother and father had been not of the wonderful

opportunity for themselves. No, over and over they had repeated, “At

last Judy can spend a whole summer with us.”

But in the weeks that followed they had become more and more immersed in

their preparations, selecting music for the Quartet, conferring with the

Dean of the Aspen School and as their excitement mounted, Judy felt hers

diminish. She felt she didn’t belong in her parents’ world. They didn’t

need her.

She walked to the window and stared ahead of her.... The summers of the

past took on an even rosier hue. The swims, the companionship of cousins

rarely seen, the homey loving household of which she was so much a part.

And the long summer evenings.... She saw herself again on the screened

porch of the Beach House. A few young neighbors, whom her grandfather

called his steady customers, were sitting near her. Her grandfather was

reading “Hamlet.” How tender his voice as he spoke the lines of Ophelia.

The moths beat their wings against the lamp, a soft droning

accompaniment. With hands cupped over his mouth he made the trumpet

sound. The King and Queen! The Duel scene... you could almost hear the

clash of rapiers.... Hamlet was dying ... Laertes ... the Queen! What

made Grandma leave the room at such a moment! But she returned almost at

once carrying a tray of ice-cream covered with oozing red, red

strawberries. And Grandfather, outraged at the sight, with an imperious

gesture, waved her aside, declaiming as if it were part of the play,

“Can’t you wait until they all decently die?” Judy smiled at the

remembrance.

She loved her parents. She didn’t want to hurt them, but at this moment

she felt she must speak up before it was too late. She heard her father

saying jovially, “Well, have the locusts finally gone?”

Judy parted the draperies and peered through the opening.

“Thank goodness, they’re all gone.”

She took a deep breath and strode into the room.

“Father,” she stopped and gulped. “You and mother are going to be so

busy at Aspen. What will I do there? I don’t know anyone. I haven’t any

friends there.”

Her father looked startled but said nothing.

“Why it’s childish to feel that way,” her mother answered easily. “There

are loads of young people at the Aspen Music School. You’ll meet them.”

“How? I’m not going as a music student. You know how things work out.

Students all get involved in their school activities. I’ll just be an

outsider. I’m worried,” her voice broke. “I want to have fun, but more

than that, I want to do something for _me_—something that matters—if you

know what I mean.”

Mrs. Lurie looked distraught. “You don’t want to come with us? It’s the

first summer in years that we’ve been able to plan to be together like a

normal family. You’re sure to find companions.” She turned to her

husband for support, but he had disappeared.

“Judy,” her mother said with a touch of finality in her voice, “there’s

no sensible reason why you can’t take up the piano again. Don’t set your

mind against it. The whole atmosphere of Aspen engenders the love of

music, the desire to study it.”

“But that’s exactly what I don’t want, Mother. Can’t you understand my

feelings? Practicing hours on end! I’ll never be a real performer, so

why bother?” She hesitated and then went on, her voice almost inaudible.

“I’d rather stay with Grandma and Grandpa at the Beach House, hearing

poetry and plays that I love.”

Her mother suddenly looked sad, and Judy was overcome with remorse.

“Mother,” she began.

The tired eyes looked at her questioningly, “Yes....”

“I guess I’m just being selfish,” Judy said, then added desperately,

“Maybe it’ll work out all right. I’ll go.”

Minna smiled with relief. “I don’t think you’ll regret it. Sometimes new

unfamiliar surroundings bring out a potential one didn’t know one

possessed. Something good is bound to emerge from the three of us living

together in a carefree atmosphere.” She paused, studying her daughter’s

face.

“Our careers have often come first—or so it seems, but for a little

while we’d like to be just parents. Do you understand? It would have

been an unbearable disappointment to your father.”

John Lurie bounded into the room, excited as a schoolboy. “It’s all

settled! It’s in the bag!” He grabbed his daughter and waltzed her

around.

“Father,” she begged when she could catch her breath, “what’s in the

bag? What are you talking about?”

“All right, I’ll tell you. A few weeks ago, the Dean mentioned that my

friend Jim Crawley had gone ahead with his scheme and was opening a

Little Theater in Aspen. That gave me an idea. It was the day after you

were such a knock-out in the class play. I called him on the phone and

told him, ‘I have a lovely, gifted daughter, nearly sixteen who’s going

with us to Aspen. Do you think you have room for a budding Audrey

Hepburn?’ He laughed that he didn’t know at the moment but he would get

in touch with me. With all his plans, I guess he forgot about it. I’m

ashamed to confess I forgot about it. But when you threatened to desert

your music-driven parents for another summer to do something on your

own, a flash illuminated this tired old brain. I just finished speaking

with Jim. He says, if you’re half as good as I say, if you’ve got decent

diction, are willing to cooperate in every way—that means, help paint

scenery and fix costumes, and are willing to work for free, since we’ll

be feeding and housing you, he’ll take you on. P.S. You’ve got the job.”

“Father, you mean it! It’s not one of your practical jokes?”

He nodded solemnly.

“It’s too good to be true. I’ll be acting! Not in a school play but in a

real theater!”

“Oh, it’s only a barn,” her father made haste to explain. “Summer

theaters are always in barns. That’s why they’re called the Straw

Circuit.”

“Oh, I’m so excited!”

“And we’re just as happy for your sake,” her mother said, “but don’t get

too carried away. If you’re lucky, you’ll get a walk-on or maybe a bit

part as the little household slavey, in which you dust the stage

furniture before the star walks on.”

“It doesn’t matter! Just to smell the grease paint!”

She flung her arms about her father and kissed him. “You’re wonderful.

Absolutely the most. I can’t wait until I tell Grandfather.”

Hurrah for the three Luries, professionals all.

2

ASPEN: FROM SILVER DUST TO MUSIC

Now that the summer in Aspen had acquired so many glamorous

possibilities, Judy could scarcely wait for the day of departure. She

went over her wardrobe a dozen times to make sure everything was

properly packed. With her new responsibilities, clothes became more

important than ever. After all, an actress had to dress properly

off-stage as well as on. She owed it to her public.

Finally the interminable few days passed. The trunks were packed and

shipped off. The suitcases the Luries would carry with them were also

stuffed and ready. It was the last night and there was only the final

visit from Grandpa and Grandma to say good-bye.

On learning of her summer theater job, Judy’s first impulse had been to

phone her grandparents immediately and regale them with the great news.

But then she decided it would be more fun to break it to them in person

and now she awaited their arrival with eager anticipation.

Despite that, when the elderly couple did arrive, Judy greeted them in

her usual affectionate manner. She was going to do this in her own way.

As Mr. Ritchie settled himself in a comfortable chair, John Lurie dug

into his pocket and came up with a huge cigar. “I saved this for you,

C.B., tin foil and all. I got it from a big shot.”

“Thanks John, but if you don’t mind I’ll smoke one of my own. I have

certain misgivings about cigars heavily disguised in tin foil

wrappings.” He lit his own and watched the smoke curl around.

“That’s a nice engagement you’ve managed to get. Wonderful country and

ideal surroundings.”

Grandmother’s voice reached them. She had been earnestly talking to her

daughter and now walked restlessly up and down, glancing at the packed

suitcases cluttered in one corner.

“Tanglewood, Minneapolis, now Aspen. Like Gypsies!”

She came over to Judy and lightly touched her hair. “Well, Judy, are you

glad you’re going?”

“Of course I am.” The girl tossed it off lightly. “But even if I weren’t

I couldn’t back out at this point ... not with all my commitments.”

Mrs. Ritchie peered at the girl with a puzzled look. “What commitments?”

“My engagements. I can’t just throw them overboard.”

The grandmother turned to Minna. “What is the girl talking about?”

Minna swallowed a smile and shrugged her shoulders. “You’d better ask

her.”

“All right. What are these engagements you’ve mentioned?”

Judy refused to be hurried. “Well, mother is engaged to sing in the

opera. Father is engaged to play in the orchestra and string quartet.

And I’m engaged to....” She hesitated long enough to permit the suspense

to build. Then with a leap, she flung her arms around her grandmother

and shouted the rest of it. “I’m booked to act in a summer theater. A

real, professional summer theater.”

With a rush of words she poured out the whole story as her grandparents

listened with excitement and pleasure.

Grandpa stood up and walked across the room. “Good luck to you, Judy.

After watching this little performance you put on for us I know you’ll

be the star of that company before the summer’s over.” Mr. Ritchie

beamed down at his granddaughter. “You’ll love Colorado, Judy, as we

did.” He took his wife’s hand. “Remember when we were there, climbing

like goats and weeks later went on to climb Mt. Rainier—”

“I love the mountains. I’ve never seen anything higher than Mt.

Washington.”

“Aspen is high. Eight thousand feet and is surrounded by peaks thirteen

and fourteen thousand feet.” Mr. Ritchie paused, a faraway look in his

eyes. “Those glorious mountains once possessed the greatest silver mines

in the world! But that’s a story in itself.”

Judy looked up expectantly. For years her grandfather had told her

fascinating tales of American history.

“You know you’re going to tell that story.” Minna smiled at her father.

He looked quizzically at his daughter. “I’m only being persuaded for

Judy’s sake.”

“Yes, yes, we know,” his son-in-law added grinning.

“The fascinating thing about Aspen, Judy, is that until about

seventy-five or eighty years ago, it was an empty valley in the heart of

the Rockies. Colorado was a territory with little to attract settlers

until they discovered silver. Then there was a mad rush to get to the

camps near Denver. Soon all the claims were staked out. The late comers

looked across the jagged peaks and thought of the silver hidden in those

mountains.”

“Did they go?” Judy asked impatiently.

Her grandfather continued, unruffled by the interruption. “The settlers

were warned that the land beyond the Continental Divide belonged to the

Iute Indians. But the rights of the Indians meant little to men hungry

for riches. They entered the Indian country, naming it Aspen because of

the forests of white-barked aspen trees.”

“Our treatment of the Indians was worse than shabby,” John muttered

vehemently.

“Yes, there were cruel and bloody struggles, but finally the Iute Chief

made peace with the white man.” Mr. Ritchie paused to relight his cigar.

“The rush for silver was on once more—this time at Aspen.”

“Isn’t that what you told me happened when Great Uncle Jake went out to

California at the time of the Gold Rush?”

“Perhaps, Judy, except that Uncle Jake never struck gold and came back

poorer than when he left—

“In Aspen country, settlers got rich, mining silver or building up the

town. They built comfortable homes, not the ugly shacks you see in most

mining country. Aspen never became one of those gambling, shooting

communities. The settlers were different. Schools, churches, a bank, a

newspaper, everything mushroomed into the empty valley. Millions of

dollars’ worth of silver ore was taken out of the mines. Then when

things were at the brightest, the silver mining towns lost their biggest

customer, the United States Government! The final blow came in 1893! Our

government decided that gold, not silver, should be used in the United

States Mint.

“The mines stopped operating. Miners were thrown out of work—so was

everyone else. The people had to leave or starve. Aspen became a ghost

town!”

“What do you mean, Grandpa?”

“When people have to leave their homes, everything they’ve labored to

build, the town dies. That’s what happened to Aspen! Maybe a hundred

settlers stayed on. The houses were empty, their doors swinging in the

wind, the streets deserted, Aspen slept.”

Minna’s voice broke the spell. “Music, not a prince, woke this sleeping

beauty. The old houses and new ones, too, are filled with music students

from all over the country. A great orchestra, like the one in which John

will play, gives concerts to thousands of people every week. Even the

old opera house has its season, students and professionals singing the

roles. Aspen is a paradise for musicians! And great lecturers, too, I’m

told.”

“And don’t overlook the skiers in winter,” John added happily. “They

come from all over the world to ski and to train for the Olympic

matches. I’m afraid, Judy, you’ll find no ghosts in Aspen, summer or

winter. So don’t let Grandpa’s tall tales bother you any.”

“Charles, we should be going. These young people will have to get some

rest. Besides, we’ll see them off tomorrow morning.”

“No, Mother dear, I won’t hear of your coming to the airport. We’ll say

good-bye right here—but don’t hurry away—stay a little longer!”

Mr. Ritchie shook his head. “We’ve got too much sense to stay on.” He

extracted a package from his briefcase.

“Judy, I nearly forgot to give you this. There’s a diary, a drawing pad,

a box of pastels, and a volume or two of poems. Something for every

shining hour, providing your heavy duties with the theater ever permit

such trivial occupation—” He laughed as he kissed her.

“Do you like my present?”

“Of course, I do. I was just thinking of last summer. When I told one of

the girls at school about your Shakespeare readings, she looked at me

pityingly. ‘You listened to Shakespeare of your own free will!’” Judy

laughed. “It’s lucky I never told her about my secret ambition,” Judy

looked innocently at her grandmother. “Yes, a writer—some day!”

Her grandmother shrugged her shoulders. “Why not choose something easy

like digging ditches?”

The sarcasm was lost on her granddaughter. “The trouble is I like so

many things—but actually,” she went on, “I don’t see why writing should

be so difficult. You get an idea, you write it down, do a line research,

maybe—there are enough words in the dictionary—”

“Of course,” her grandmother said wryly.

Mrs. Ritchie put on her coat and she too remembered a parcel. “Minna

dear,” she said, handing her daughter an oversized shoebox, “take this

with you on the trip. It might come in handy.”

Her daughter eyed the box suspiciously. “Come in handy?” She’d heard

that formula before. “Mother! You’d think we were crossing the continent

in the covered wagon days. Haven’t we enough to carry?”

“Be thankful, Minna, it isn’t a roast turkey with all the trimmings,”

her father said, laughing while Minna shook her head in mock despair.

John cleared his throat and impulsively put his arms around his

parents-in-law. “We know how good you’ve been to us, and how patient.

But as musicians, we must go where opportunity beckons.”

Judy stood with her mother at the window and watched her grandparents

walk slowly to their car. Their shoulders touched, Grandma holding

Grandpa’s arm.

“They’re so wonderful,” her mother murmured. “They made our careers

possible. It wasn’t easy for us, nor for them.” Her voice was low, as if

speaking to herself. “Struggle ... to get even this far—”

“What struggle?” Judy wondered. All those exciting trips her parents

took to faraway countries? Of course, they were rarely able to get

engagements together. Last month her father was in Canada and her mother

in Argentina. But in only two weeks they were back. As for herself, she

always had her grandparents! They disliked the city and the cramped

quarters of their daughter’s apartment. But they came just the same,

giving it, even for a week or two, something of the atmosphere of their

own home. A corner of the living room was turned into a studio for

Grandfather where he painted happily after a busy day at the office. In

another corner of the living room Grandmother had her typewriter where

she labored, when time permitted, at stories hopefully sent off, but

whose return never disheartened her for long! Records were played, but

the piano was rarely opened. Yes, it was fun having her grandparents

move in. Members of the family dropped in whom Judy otherwise never saw.

And the joy of the theater! Once it was “Medea.” When her grandmother

protested, Grandfather had said, “What, have the girl miss the chance of

seeing Judith Anderson!” They sat in the balcony, Grandmother wearing

Grandfather’s glasses. She always insisted her eyes were perfect, except

now and then. Her firm, straight back was bent forward, not to miss a

single word. Grandfather sat at ease, enjoying himself.

Her mother touched her arm. “What are you thinking about, Judy?”

“Nothing ... just remembering some wonderful times with Grandmother and

Grandfather.”

Her mother sighed. “It seems only a few years ago that they were

climbing mountains! Now they seem old.”

“How can you say that, Mother? They never seem old to me.”

“You’re a strange girl.”

They turned back to the living room. Mrs. Lurie checked over the

suitcases for the last time. Judy tidied up the room while her father

carefully covered his precious viola with layers of soft cloths.

The last chores were done. In the morning they would start on the first

lap of their journey to Aspen.

3

PLEASURES OF TRAVEL

Flying was no novelty to her parents, but to Judy, whose small journeys

had always been by car, this, her first plane trip, was an event. In

Aspen they were going to do without a car. Mr. Lurie wouldn’t trust

their old bus on those mountain roads.

It was still foggy when they took their seats in the plane. Judy was

conscious of the unconcern of everyone but herself. Why, only last week

she heard over the radio, “the plane had only just left the ground

when—”

The motors started, whirring noisily as they warmed up. Mrs. Lurie

noticed the strained expression on her daughter’s face.

“Once we’re in the air, you’ll be thrilled. You’ll see Long Island as a

bird might—”

The girl smiled feebly. She closed her eyes. When I open them, she told

herself, I’ll be up in the air. She counted slowly to a hundred—they

were still in the same spot. Twice she repeated the experiment. The

plane was still on the ground, racing along the runway! Then when she

least expected it, there was a sudden lift and they were flying. The

mist had disappeared. The world below was an intricate design of shining

water, green fields, and toy houses. It was more wonderful than anything

she had ever imagined and with the wonder, her fears vanished.

Before long they were flying at nineteen thousand feet. All she could

see were soft fleecy clouds. The plane seemed like a giant bird skimming

over endless banks of snow. Three hours from the time they left the

airport they could make out the tall buildings of Chicago, hundreds of

miles from home.

“I’ll meet you at the railroad terminal in an hour, two at the most,”

John told his wife, taking only his viola with him as he stepped into a

taxi to keep his appointment.

Mrs. Lurie and Judy proceeded to the railroad. The porter left them with

their five pieces of baggage near the gate marked “Denver and

California.” There were no seats nearby and before a half hour passed,

it became increasingly difficult to stand. Judy balanced herself on one

of the upturned suitcases and her mother soon followed her example. They

tried to read. A coke from one machine and salted peanuts from another

provided a pleasant interlude. Judy watched people going into a

restaurant at the far end of the station. Her mother noticed her

fascinated absorption.

“We can’t move these bags and there isn’t a porter in sight. As soon as

your father comes, we’ll get something to eat.”

At the word “eat,” Judy remembered her grandmother’s shoebox—such

tremendous chicken sandwiches and fruit! This was the emergency her

grandmother always managed to foresee.

When another hour passed, Mrs. Lurie, no longer able to conceal her

anxiety, went in search of a porter. He tossed their luggage on his

truck while they took up their vigil at the gate, scanning every

entrance. With less than five minutes to spare, John rushed toward them,

mumbling breathlessly, “Sorry, darlings.”

“Sorry nothing,” Judy thought, severely critical. On the contrary, she

noticed his eyes sparkled.

“I signed the new contract,” he whispered to Minna as he herded them

aboard the train. Mrs. Lurie, too, was now all smiles, the tension of

the last hours forgotten.

They entered the car where they would spend the remaining hours of the

late afternoon, the night, and most of the following day.

Mr. Lurie cleared the seats of the luggage. His viola, never out of his

sight for a moment, he placed conspicuously near the seat he would

occupy.

“When we’re ready to retire,” Mrs. Lurie said, “the porter will come and

make up our beds. You’re taking the upper berth. Father and I will share

the lower one.”

It was seven-thirty before they could get seats in the dining car. They

stood with a long queue of people in the narrow corridor of the swaying

train. Everyone was friendly and freely gave advice. “Be sure to get up

early tomorrow morning so that you can get seats in the Vista Dome—”

At last the Luries were ushered to their seats by an impressive-looking

steward. Mr. Lurie was studying the menu card.

“Outrageous!”

“What is?” Judy asked, turning her gaze from the jiggling silver on the

table.

“The prices! One has the choice of starving or becoming bankrupt!”

“John,” her mother said quietly, “everyone can hear you. Besides, the

railroad can’t help charging so much. I read an article that showed they

actually lose money on the dining cars—the cost of food, the waste. They

threaten to discontinue them altogether.”

“Well then, let’s eat and be merry,” he replied, his high spirits

returning.

By the time they returned to their car, their beds were made up for the

night. Using the ladder, Judy climbed into her berth. The curtains were

fastened.

“Mother,” Judy called, sticking her head through a tiny opening, “it’s

pitch black. I can’t seem to locate the light.”

“It’s overhead, near the pillow,” her mother whispered. “Father and I

are going into the club car.”

Judy, on her knees to avoid bumping her head, groped about vaguely,

found the small button and pressed it hard. There was a resounding ring.

She jumped at the sound and then, quite by accident, found the light

switch. Cautiously, still on her knees, she began pulling off her

sweater.

“What is it, Miss?” The kindly face of the porter peered at her.

“I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” Judy said thickly, her sweater wedged

over her nose and mouth. “I couldn’t find the light. But it’s all right

now.”

“Ring whenever you need me.” He quickly withdrew his head. A battery of

bells called him.

She finished undressing lying flat on her back, struggled into pajamas,

and tossed her jumbled clothes in a heap at the foot of her berth.

“It’s six-thirty, Judy.” It was her mother speaking. “We want to get an

early breakfast so that we can get seats in the Vista Dome.” Her mother

was already dressed, when she could have slept through the morning, a

luxury Minna loved but rarely enjoyed.

When Judy made her appearance, her mother looked at her. “Your hair!—You

look as if you fell out of a grab bag.”

In the dressing room, overflowing with crying babies and their mothers,

Judy made herself presentable. Once again they went through the lunging

cars.

For Judy, the dinner of the night before hadn’t been much of a success.

She flushed as she remembered the white rivulet of milk coursing down

her new sweater.

“No fluids, thank you—something solid and substantial, like pancakes

with syrup. Besides,” she whispered to her father, “imagine, orange

juice, forty cents a glass!” His smile and nod commended her for her

good sense.

After breakfast they hurried to the last car. It was a comfortable

lounge in the center of which was a short flight of steps. They ascended

the stairway and entered the Vista Dome, a train above a train,

completely glassed in, even the top. The Luries crowded together in the

last vacant seat. They were silent, enraptured by the beauty of the

scene. Mountains hemmed them in on both sides. “What if there were a

landslide?” Judy thought, “and one of those overhanging crags came

crashing down on the glass dome!”

The train climbed steadily. As the hours passed, the mountains took on a

somber brown and dullish red and assumed the fantastic shapes of

turreted castles. Frequently the train disappeared into a tunnel cut

through the mountain. One of them, “the Moffat Tunnel,” the loudspeaker

announced, “is a great engineering feat and is six miles long.”

Many seats were vacant now. People were getting tired in spite of the

glorious views. Judy noticed a girl about her own age sitting alone.

“Why don’t you go over and speak to her,” her mother suggested. “She’ll

probably be glad of your company.”

Within a matter of minutes Judy and Audrey were like old friends.

“We’ve lived in so many cities,” Audrey said with a tired shrug. “Now

we’re bound for L.A.” At Judy’s look of interrogation, she added, “Los

Angeles.”

“We’d only just bought a house in Omaha. Now it’s up for sale! Honestly,

my father says his boss moves him around like a piece on a

checkerboard!”

Judy was sympathetic. “I thought only musicians move so much.”

“Musicians? You?”

“No,” Judy answered quickly. “My mother and father. That’s why we’re

going to Aspen. Mother’s a singer and Father plays the viola. And they

always practice at home—Mother with her accompanist and Father and his

quartet—can you imagine what it’s like sometimes?”

“Awful! How can you stand it?”

“You get used to it. Sometimes, I must admit, it’s very nice.”

“Have you a job or something out in Aspen?”

“Not exactly a job, but I—I—er—expect to act—in one of those little

summer theaters,” Judy spoke diffidently, but she couldn’t quite conceal

her exultation.

Audrey was impressed. “An actress! But you don’t look like one!”

“Well, you know, Audrey, with grease paint and makeup—besides, I

probably will have the most minute role,” she smiled with a deprecating

little gesture.

Audrey returned to her own problems. “I don’t mind telling you, it is a

tragedy for me to leave Omaha.”

Judy was about to inquire what she meant by those solemn words when a

big voice boomed behind them.

“You can see the broken-down, deserted cabins halfway up the mountains.”

The girls turned toward the voice. A short, stocky man was standing near

them, a pair of field glasses in one hand and pointing to the mountains

with the other.

Judy smiled out of politeness and he returned her smile.

“Like to have a peek?” He handed her the glasses. She too could see the

trails and dilapidated shacks that led to the mines.

“Here, Audrey, you look.”

“Oh, yes, I see them,” Audrey said, returning the glasses to the owner.

“And do you know what was in those mines?” the man continued in a

stentorian voice. “Gold! That’s what brought them to Colorado, gold!”

“I thought it was silver,” Judy said quietly. “My grandfather told me

that silver—”

She got no further. She could hear the subdued chuckling of the

passengers.

“You’re right, Miss, but only half right. First they came for gold, then

for silver. Tell that to your grandpa!”

He went on talking, explaining.... Judy’s eyes ached from the sun that

blazed through the glass dome, and her neck was stiff from looking and

straining.

“Attention, please!” The voice of the loudspeaker broke in on the man’s

eloquence. “When we reach the next station, there will be a wait of

twenty minutes for the automatic car washing. This process will be of

interest to our passengers.”

The two girls had only one thought, to get off the train and stretch

their legs. Arm in arm they walked down the long platform, soon

engrossed in their former conversation.

“The reason I hated to leave Omaha was not because of the new house, but

because I was going steady with a boy! Now we’re separated, maybe

forever.”

Judy pressed Audrey’s hand to indicate how deeply she understood.

With slow, leisurely steps they walked back, remembering the car

washing. They looked down the tracks. The train had vanished.

“What will we do?”

“And we haven’t any money to telegraph or anything,” Judy waved her

empty purse. A stone would have been moved by that gesture.

“What’s the matter, girls?” A nice-looking gentleman, standing nearby,

having heard their cries of alarm, smilingly faced them.

“The train!” they stammered in one breath. “It’s gone!”

“I wouldn’t worry if I were you,” his mouth twitched as if he wanted to

laugh. “The train is down a siding, about a mile, having that grand

wash. Remember? It’ll come back.”

The girls were too miserable to talk. They kept staring down the empty

tracks, not quite believing, yet hoping the train would return.

At last the train, beautifully clean, slid down the tracks before them.

The girls stood together on the train as it began to move. “Be sure to

write,” Judy said tensely. “Remember, everything about him.” Addresses

were hurriedly exchanged. Feeling almost like sisters who have just met,

only to be cruelly torn apart, they kissed fondly and separated, Audrey

to her car and Judy to the Vista Dome where she had left her parents

peacefully sleeping.

Glenwood Springs, the railroad station for Aspen, was the next stop. The

Luries hurried back to their car.

Their berths were made up and the luggage was once again piled on the

seats and under them. Mr. Lurie methodically counted them. “One, two,

three—where’s the viola? I don’t see it!—” His voice was almost a gasp.

“The porter has probably taken it out with our large case,” Minna said

confidently, but her face was as white as his. “I’ll ring for him.”

The porter appeared. “Where’s my viola?” Mr. Lurie asked in a voice that

scarcely concealed his rage.

“Your what, Sir?” the porter asked calmly.

“My viola,” Mr. Lurie snapped. “It looks like a violin, only larger. It

was in a black case. It’s not here. We’ve looked everywhere.” His voice

shook. “Did you take it out with any other baggage?”

The porter shook his head. “I remember that violin thing. Just took the

things from the bed, laid them down while I made up the berths.”

“And why did you make up my berth? Didn’t I ask you to leave it alone?”

“But I has to make up the berths,” the porter argued mildly.

“That berth down there isn’t made up,” Mr. Lurie’s eyes flashed as he

pointed to the one that still had its curtains drawn.

As if startled by the turmoil, the head of an elderly woman, her hair

secured in a pink net, suddenly protruded from the curtains.

“Porter,” she asked querulously, “how many times must I ring? You

promised to bring my tray an hour ago.”

“I know, Ma’am, I was just fixing to bring it when this gentleman here

got some trouble.”

A slow smile broke over the porter’s face. “I recollect now—everyone

leaving at one time to get to the Vista Dome. I piled things everywhere.

That lady down there, I couldn’t make up her berth. She was feeling

poorly. When she went into the ladies’ lounge, I naturally set a lot of

things in her upper berth. It was empty. Then she comes back unexpected

and—”

“Instead of all this palaver,” Mr. Lurie interrupted, “will you kindly

see if it is there?”

“Pardon me, Ma’am,” and with a practiced hand he reached into the upper

berth and drew out the black case of the viola.

“There you are, Sir. No harm done. Never lost a thing in all my—”

“Thank Heaven!” Mr. Lurie said fervently, wiping the beads of

perspiration from his face.

“You have no idea, Porter, what the loss of that instrument could mean

to me. You were negligent,” Mr. Lurie reiterated, not nearly so

belligerently, “but the main thing is that it was found.”

Everybody smiled with relief. The train was slowing down. Judy and her

parents said good-bye to their fellow passengers and a few minutes later

they were standing on the platform.

Judy watched the long train slowly pull away. It took on speed and was

soon lost to sight.

“Come on, Judy,” her mother called impatiently, “stop dreaming. We still

have a short bus ride to Aspen.”

4

FIRST GLIMPSE OF ASPEN

The short ride to Aspen proved to be forty miles!

A tall, ungainly youth, his good-natured face topped by thick red hair,

walked unerringly to the man carrying the musical instrument.

“Mr. Lurie?”

Mr. Lurie nodded.

“I’m Fran,” the boy smiled. “I’m to drive you to Aspen.”

“Good,” and with an answering smile, Mr. Lurie introduced him to Mrs.

Lurie and Judy. Fran helped with the luggage as well as with the cartons

already arrived, and piloted them to the car.

It was a neat little bus, and its name gaily painted in red letters,

“Little Percent,” was visible through the film of dust that covered the

car like a blanket.

“That’s an odd name,” Mr. Lurie commented.

“Not for Aspen. There was once a mine called ‘Little Percent.’ Now it’s

the name of the only taxi business around here. Nearly everything here

is named after the silver mines—Little Annie, The Smuggler. Now they’re

just fancy eating places.”

As Judy was about to take her seat with her parents, Fran said

offhandedly, “Maybe you’d better sit up front with me. No sense all

being crowded in there with all that baggage.”

Fran put his foot on the gas and they were soon speeding along a dirt

road, the dust almost choking them.

“Sorry about the dust,” Fran said over his shoulder. “We haven’t had a

drop of rain in weeks.”

They rounded curves on one wheel and Fran seemed to enjoy Judy’s

terrified “Oh’s!” as they edged a precipice with only inches to spare.

“Don’t tell me you’re scared!” he smiled jovially. “This is nothing!

Wait until sometime you go up Independence Pass. There you really have

to watch your bus.”

“I love mountains. I’ve climbed them since I was a child,” Judy said

stiffly. “But racing over ledges is something different. You can trust

your feet—that’s more than you can say about a car.”

Barely glancing at the road, Fran gazed obliquely at Judy with new

interest. “If you like mountain climbing, you’ll be crazy about Aspen.”

“Really? I thought everyone came here to study music, or play in the

orchestra, or sing!”

“We get lots of that kind all summer. And besides them there are the

thousands who come to listen and go to lectures every night!”

He maneuvered another hairpin curve, taking no notice of a shuddering

“Oh!” this time from Mrs. Lurie. “But the real excitement,” he went on,

“the real money spent around here is for skiing. From fall right up to

spring! That’s a sport. Skiing!” His face glowed.

“How do you find time to ski?” Judy asked.

“What do you mean? You might as well ask how one finds time to eat!”

Mrs. Lurie leaned forward and tapped her daughter on the shoulder.

“Don’t you think you should let Fran concentrate on his driving instead

of annoying him with your chatter?”

“I barely opened my mouth!” Judy said indignantly, as she turned around.

“Blaming me!—” When she saw the strained look on her mother’s face, she

nudged Fran and told him to take it easy. He was making her mother

nervous.

The clouds of dust were finally left behind and they approached Aspen

over a bumpy, paved road.

“See that enormous white tent?” Fran said, unconsciously assuming the

role of a driver of a guided tour. “That’s where all the big concerts

are given. The supports inside the tent are a bright orange and the

cushions of the seats are blue. Very pretty!”

And the Luries obediently looked, eager to get their first glimpse of

the canvas concert hall they were to know so well.

“Cost the music people about ten thousand dollars,” the irrepressible

Fran continued.

“Ten thousand dollars,” Mrs. Lurie echoed. “How did they manage to raise

such a large sum of money?”

Fran slowed the car, his head turned toward his uneasy passengers behind

him. “Well, for one thing, there’s a Mr. Paepcke. He’s the president of

a paper container corporation—a millionaire! It was his idea to make

Aspen a music center.”

“Yes. I’ve heard of him,” Mr. Lurie replied. “He seems to be quite a

person. In fact, I understand that since the Aspen Music

Associates—that’s the new name for the Music Festival—” he told his

wife, “—since they now can get contributions to cover the deficit, Mr.

Paepcke has turned his attention to other projects.”

“That’s right, Mr. Lurie. He’s just crazy about culture! Has paintings

and art exhibits, even highbrow lectures!” Fran turned down a side

street, stopping the car. “I thought I could show you his latest—but

it’s too far out of our way. He’s built a large, plush hotel, just for

businessmen when they come here for vacation. He expects them to go to

the lectures he’s arranged, highbrow stuff—philosophy and that sort of

thing, so they shouldn’t waste their time while on vacation!” Fran shook

his head over the strange, inexplicable notions of Mr. Paepcke.

“A very remarkable idea,” Mr. Lurie said thoughtfully. “To be able to

use one’s hours of leisure on vacation for the things one never has time

for—”

“I bet they’ll still come here just to ski, anyhow, when there’s any

snow,” Fran said with a grin.

They were driving through many of the principal streets of Aspen. It was

a small town that nestled in a lovely green valley between two great

mountains: Aspen and Red, Fran named them. He pointed to some houses

high up the mountain, barely visible because of the forests. “Imagine

people building big homes up there because the town’s too crowded! The

road is so steep only the jeeps can make it. A good car gets used up in

no time.”

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.”

[Illustration: uncaptioned]

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.

[Illustration: uncaptioned]

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.

With the collapse of her plans to act, other means of retrieving the

summer from “total loss” occasionally occurred to her. A job. Audrey, in

a letter, described hers with such loving detail as quite to overshadow

the meager news about her erstwhile boy friend.

A job? Judy tried, but her disappointing attempts always followed the

same pattern.

“Have you any experience?” “None?” “Sorry.” or “We have all the help we

need. You must apply early in Aspen, long before the season.”

Judy surrendered. Actually she was enjoying this unexpected leisure.

Lonesome sometimes? Yes, but free, free to wander about....

Entering the shop of Berko Studio, she exhausted the patience of the

elderly salesman before she selected her two views of Aspen and the

mountains nearby. How much there was to see in this wonderful world of

the Rockies! A thought flashed through her mind. Why not come back with

an article for the _The Plow_, her high school paper? The October issue

was always lavishly devoted to a Vacation Series.

“My Summer in Aspen.” She shook her head. What had she done that was

interesting? Precisely nothing—yet.

“Aspen Past and Present.” Decidedly better, she thought. But it had its

drawbacks. You must have an encyclopedia or some means to acquire

information. She meditated. She had finished every book she owned. The

library! She slung her bag over her shoulder, thankful that Aspen had

one!

She reached the library in a half-hour’s brisk walk and found to her

surprise it was an insignificant corner of a large red brick structure,

“The Aspen Bank.” Thinking she must be mistaken, she circled the block

only to discover the bank building had still another entrance with an

inconspicuous sign, “Wheeler Opera House, 1881.” She stood there

puzzled. Could this be the opera house where world-famous singers and

actors had appeared in the old mining days? Why, only the other night

her father had brought home some colored photographs. Together they had

fairly drooled over the plush and gold interior, more than four hundred

gilt chairs in the orchestra, stage boxes upholstered in red plush. Her

mother had remarked with chilling candor, “It’s nothing like it used to

be. It was twice burnt down and twice restored.... We’re going there on

Thursday night. The Juillard Quartet is giving a Lecture—Recital. You’ll

see it then.”

“It’ll be a wonderful evening,” her father promised, “and I’ll take you

on a personally conducted tour of the House.”

Judy retraced her steps. The Opera House could wait.

A single room lined with books—that was the library! A placard

prominently placed on the wall cautioned “Silence.” The only person in

the room besides herself was the librarian, sitting at her desk and

looking rather forbidding in her horn-rimmed eyeglasses.

Judy searched the shelves. Still under the spell of the old mining days,

she selected _Aspen and the Silver Kings_. It was a large, heavy book,

its text liberally interwoven with pictures. She sat down at a table to

examine it more leisurely. Mule teams with heavy wagons carrying the

silver ore over Independence Pass, a road thirteen thousand feet high. A

trip over this scenic wonder was, even to the passengers in Kit Carson’s

stage coach, a fearsome thing. A hut near one of the mine shafts. Five

men playing cards. A snow slide and the five were buried under

twenty-five feet of snow.

She turned the pages. The coming of the first railroad, a queer-looking

train pulled by two engines, smoke belching from its odd-looking

funnels; people rushed down to the depot with flags, yelling themselves

hoarse. It was a great day. Ore could now be moved by train!

Judy cheerfully skipped the pages. She still hoped for something more

personal, maybe romantic. It was the human element she anxiously sought.

She read on. Under the intriguing title, “Horace Tabor, the man who

preferred love and Baby Doe to his silver empire,” Judy recognized

romance. This was the sort of pioneer life that appealed to her!

She looked at Tabor’s picture, a tall, well-built man with fine features

and a long silky mustache. While not exactly a Don Juan, he was

devotedly loved by two women, both of them interesting characters.

Augusta, his wife, came with Horace Tabor from Maine. In Leadville they

opened a general store and in a short time Horace became postmaster and

then mayor of the seventy shanties that comprised Leadville at that

time. Augusta, even as the mayor’s wife, took in boarders to help with

the family budget. Tabor generously staked the miners to food, picks,

shovels, dynamite, anything they needed to get on with their

prospecting. Augusta objected to his easy-going ways. Money was hard to

make and they often quarreled.

But Tabor in staking the miners got a share in whatever they found. The

mines began to pay off and Tabor became rich. From “Little Pittsburgh”

alone he made five hundred thousand dollars in fifteen months. He bought

other mines. He was civic-minded, gave Leadville the Opera House and a

Grand Opera House to Denver, was spoken of as the future United States

Senator. But the Tabors were unhappy and their quarrels increased.

At the age of forty-seven he met the beautiful blonde, Mrs. Harvey Doe,

known as Baby Doe. It was love at first sight! Tabor begged Augusta to

give him a divorce. She refused. He offered her mines, properties.

“Never,” she repeated. After five years of wrangling in court, she gave

him the divorce and accepted the mines. “Some day,” she told the

newspapers, “Tabor will return to me when that blonde hussy grows tired

of him.”

Judy wondered what became of Baby Doe. No doubt, somewhere among the

pages of the book something more would be told.

She went over to the desk. “I’d like to take this book home.” The

librarian looked at the title and raised her eyebrows. “Don’t you think

this is a little technical?” she smiled indulgently. “We have a copy of

_Lorna Doone_, _Jane Eyre_.”

“Thank you,” Judy smiled, “but I read those.”

“Dickens?” The librarian suggested helpfully.

“This book’s history, isn’t it?” Judy said, holding the book

possessively. “I like history and since I’m staying in Aspen, I think I

ought to look into—”

“Very well,” the librarian said kindly. “How shall I make out the card?

There’s a deposit of one dollar, which will be returned to you when you

leave Aspen.”

“A dollar!” Judy exclaimed. To give up so much money even if only

temporarily—she emptied the contents of her bag on the librarian’s desk,

although she knew all the time that it contained only twenty-five cents.

“May I take the book for a quarter and bring the rest of it tomorrow?”

“No, dear. You come tomorrow and in the meantime I’ll put the book aside

for you, although,” she added with a smile, “no one has taken it from

the shelf in years.” Her smile was so friendly, Judy wondered how she

could have thought her grim and forbidding.

Judy stood there in a quandary. It was much too early to go anywhere for

her lunch and she no longer wished to remain in the library. The Wheeler

Opera House again obtruded itself upon her thoughts. It was just around

the block. Since she was here—

“Miss...” Judy began. “Wilkes,” the librarian finished for her.

“Miss Wilkes,” Judy began again, “would it be all right for me to go

into the Opera House now? That is, is one permitted to just go in to

look around?”

“Yes, of course. The entrance is at the extreme end of the bank

building. There’s a sign, ‘Wheeler Opera House.’”

“Yes, I saw the sign.”

“The Opera House is at the very top of the building. It’s a steep climb

and the door may be locked, but you can try.”

Judy felt grateful to the librarian who had assisted her in this happy

solution. She could spend an hour “exploring,” her favorite expression

for any walk or errand in Aspen. She reached the entrance of the Opera

House and ran up the wooden steps that led into the hall. It was dingy,

not in the least what she had expected. An enormous, an apparently

never-ending flight of stairs appeared ahead of her. Worse than anything

was the deafening sound of musical instruments coming at her like waves

from every part of the building, like a giant orchestra forever tuning

up. As she stood there irresolute a pianist could be heard, the music

coming from under the staircase. For a little while it drowned out the

din of the other players.

A light now dawned on Judy. This was where the students practiced! She

recalled her father speaking of them as the lucky ones who didn’t have

to go to private homes such as theirs. He surely must have been joking!

Bank, library, practice rooms, and Opera House, all in one old brick

building! Her eyes measured the staircase. She began to climb and

increased her speed to get there quickly. By the time she reached the

landing, she was out of breath. More doors leading to more practice

rooms. If anything, the cacophony had increased.

Another staircase stretched ahead, seemingly to go to the roof. She

slowly ascended. The sounds of the instruments grew muffled, then almost

ceased. On the landing there was only one door, marked “Entrance.” She

gently turned the knob, pushed the massive door, and stepped within.

There was a prolonged whine as the door closed behind her. She stood

there, blinking at the glare of white lights on the stage. Four

musicians were sitting before their music stands and were playing with

such absorption that her mouselike entrance went unnoticed. A

quartet—she recognized the instruments.

She looked about her diffidently. A glow from the windows in the balcony

shed a soft light over the auditorium. She saw the walls, papered in

deep red embossed with gold medallions. But there were no gold and plush

boxes, nor hundreds of gilded chairs!

She couldn’t remain standing there like a statue. If she sat down in one

of the orchestra seats, she might be seen. The balcony would be best;

besides, from that point of vantage she could see everything better. She

moved quietly along the wall, tip-toed up the circular stairs, and

gently lowered a seat. The hinge snapped and the seat fell with a bang.

The quartet was playing softly, which made matters worse, and only when

it began its brilliant finale did she slide into the seat. She looked

about her. It was easy to picture the one-time audience, all satin and

brocade, glittering with diamonds and jewels. She was jolted out of her

pleasant fancies when one of the musicians stepped forward to address

the empty auditorium.

“In order to give the student body and our guests some greater insight

into the music of Bartok, each member of the quartet will play a solo

passage and follow it with his interpretation. In this way, we feel that

those unfamiliar with the work of Bartok will learn to understand its

profound meaning and—”

The voice of each of the successive players was pleasant. They explained

long and difficult passages, preceded by equally long and difficult

excerpts from the music. Judy sighed. And this is what her father had

promised would be a wonderful evening! She sat there, her lips

compressed. If this is what the Juillard Quartet was going to play

Thursday night, wild horses wouldn’t drag her here again!

Her eyes ached from the harsh lights on stage. One could hear as well

with eyes shut. Her father often did. The musicians’ faces, their voices

and their music faded, then melted into an exciting vision....

She recognized immediately the figure of Horace Tabor. His thick, silky

mustache was unmistakable. And that was Augusta, his wife, as she

upbraided him as she swept the stage, her long, black skirt swishing

about her, her eyes flashing, her hair like a tower on her head.

“Is that how you repay me for the many years of hard work, traipsing all

the way from Maine to Colorado? And now that you are rich, you think you

can desert me for that baby-faced blonde, Baby Doe?” Her voice quivered

with anger and disdain.

“Be reasonable, Augusta,” Tabor’s voice was firm, yet sad.

“Reasonable! I will never give you a divorce. Never!”

“But, Augusta, you forget. I have my divorce!”

“One that I will never recognize!” she wildly interrupted.

“Baby Doe is now my wife. I love her!”

And there clinging to Tabor was Baby Doe, her soft curves pressed close

to him, her head crowned with golden curls resting on his breast.

“She, that creature, will be your ruin!” Augusta said and pointed her

finger derisively. “You’ll never become Senator tied to her! You’ll

never be anything! You’re finished!”

“Augusta,” Tabor spoke with sorrowful dignity. “I have made you rich.

I’ve given you mines. You want more money, very well! Only I will have

Baby Doe....” And he clasped the silent clinging figure closer to him.

Augusta rose to her full height, like an angry prophetess of old. “She’s

after your money, your fortune. And when that is gone, she’ll leave you!

Some day when you are ragged and poverty-stricken, you will wake up.

Wake up!”

Judy felt someone shaking her arm. “Wake up!” the voice repeated. She

opened her eyes with difficulty. A boy was bending over her.

“The rehearsal’s over. The quartet will be leaving in a few minutes and

lock up.”

Judy looked at him, her mind still hovering between the past and the

present. “Who are you?” she asked.