Judy shook her head. “You see, darling as he is, he doesn’t take me seriously either.”
Karl laughed. “I like that grandfather of yours. He just wants you to make up your own mind. You still have lots of time to decide. But it’s a long, hard road. A true artist lives only for his art.”
“That’s just the trouble with it. There’s so much I want to see and do, not just be a person dedicated to art! Take my mother and father. They live for their art!” Judy grimaced, “Some day when father’s old, forty-five or fifty, perhaps he’ll get recognition! Everyone says Mother has a wonderful voice. She has engagements all year. But is that enough? No! She has to study languages, acting, and her singing. Lately her manager suggested she take up dancing! Did you ever hear of anything so crazy, at her age!”
“Some fine singers go into operettas and musicals.”
“But she hasn’t time as it is, ever to enjoy herself! At least Father once or twice a year takes off a week end and goes on a ski trip or a mountain climb. But Mother, no! She’s either too tired or must rehearse or the house has been neglected and she wants the chance to catch up on it, or her—well, it’s always something! Even here at Aspen, which she tells everyone is simply idyllic, she works and worries.”
“Worries about you?”
“Me? Of course not! She’s worrying about the concert at which she’s to be the soloist. I couldn’t bear such a life!”
Karl was deep in thought, analyzing, as was his nature, all that Judy so impetuously revealed. “I don’t think you really understand your mother, Judy,” he said. “She possesses that inner fire that drives her on. She’s probably far happier than you think. I’m willing to say, without knowing her, that excepting her family, singing is the biggest thing in her life.” Judy seemed unimpressed. “What are your parents’ names?” he asked.
“Lurie. My father’s John and my mother, Minna.”
“Your father is John Lurie? I’ve heard him play. The students worship him. He’s a wonderful violist! He’ll be a second Primrose, someday.”