  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.” 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. |
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