  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. 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. “My name’s Karl. I’m a violin student. I’ve been listening to the rehearsal. Please come along. I don’t want to get locked in here.” uncaptioned “I just closed my eyes for a minute,” Judy said as she followed him down the balcony steps. “It was a long minute, closer to thirty,” he laughed. “I saw—or rather heard you—as you lowered that seat—sort of crash landing.” “I know. I was petrified when it fell. A broken spring, I guess.” They neared the entrance door. The music stands were folded and the players were talking and laughing among themselves. Judy and Karl left unnoticed and ran swiftly down the two long flights of stairs. “They’ve stopped practicing!” Judy said, surprised at the silence in the halls. “Of course, lunch time. Most of the students eat at the houses, you know, the dorms where they live.” “You too?” Karl shook his head. “I came weeks before the Music Festival started. I live with my uncle.” They stood for a moment. The sun felt warm and pleasant after the mustiness of the Opera House. They looked at each other curiously. “Well,” the boy smiled, about to leave. “Karl,” Judy said hesitantly. She didn’t want him to go, not just yet. He was nice—didn’t treat her like a child. “Karl,” she said with a little more confidence, “where are you going to eat your lunch?” “Anywhere,” and he shrugged his shoulders as he tapped the pocket of his coat bulging with a yellow bag. “I have my lunch along too. The Chairlift is where I nearly always go. There are benches and one can buy something to drink right there.” “O.K.,” Karl said. “It’s one of my favorite spots too.” They started walking. “By the way, what’s your name?” “Judy.” “Judy,” he repeated. “I once knew a girl who was called Judith.” “You did? What was she like?” “It was a long time ago when I lived with a family abroad,” he said quietly and quickly changed the subject. “How did you like Bartok? Or didn’t you hear any of it?” he said with a good-natured smile. “Of course I did!” Remembering how little of it she had really heard, she went on carefully choosing her words. “I found it difficult to understand—to—” “You’re right,” he interrupted, much to Judy’s relief. “I’ve heard it now five times and each time I discover something new in it. It’s great music. Like Milhaud and the other moderns, you’ve got to hear them again and again. I came especially to hear Bartok’s piece because I’m studying it. I can’t wait to hear it again on Thursday night.” “Oh, yes, Thursday night.” “Expect to be there?” Karl asked. “Naturally,” Judy answered. “My parents count on my going.” Her recent resolution flashed through her mind. “Wild horses wouldn’t drag me here again!” But it was different now. Now there was Karl! |
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