How Constance Conquered

long-dreaded time had come. Constance was allowed to remain home from school all day, so that she might be thoroughly rested and in good trim for the evening.

In all the fifteen years of her life there was nothing that Constance Holbrough had ever looked forward to with so much mingled anticipation and fear as that recital. She had been taking lessons on the piano from Madame de Chanwix for four years, but not till now had she attained the dignity of being allowed to take part in the annual recital of the great Madame's older and more advanced pupils.

And Constance was proud of that honor. She had really remarkable musical talent; she was by far the youngest of all the performers that season, and she was to render a long and exceedingly difficult composition—none other than Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata" The choice of the selection had been Uncle Geoff's. Madame de Chanwix had fairly gasped when she was informed what he wished Constance to play, and secretly entertained grave doubts as to whether so young a pupil could do justice to the wonderful composition. But then it was Uncle Geoff who was furnishing the means for Constance's music lessons, and his wishes were not to be lightly disregarded. Therefore, they started in bravely, several months before the appointed time; and before long it became evident that Constance would be equal to her task. In six weeks she had mastered the technical part, and in six more she was able to execute the entire piece without her notes, and with extremely creditable expression and style.

Constance loved the "Moonlight Sonata," both for itself, and for the beautiful story that Uncle Geoff had told her of how it came to be written: How the great master, while out walking one moonlight evening, happened to pass a cottage whence came the sound of a piano playing one of Beethoven's own compositions. How he knocked and, though a stranger, gained admittance, and found that the musician was a young blind girl. How he had asked permission to play, and seating himself, rendered exquisitely the music she had striven inadequately to draw forth, and the inhabitants of the cottage knew that their visitor was none other than Beethoven himself. Uncle Geoff told her how, when he had ended, he looked toward the window and said: "I will improvise a sonata to the moonlight," and under his touch the gracious harmonies grew like the silver, shimmering light, transmuted into sound; and, when the last note died away, and the wondering listeners pressed him with further hospitality, he refused to stay, saying that he must hurry home to write down the new sonata before it escaped him.

Constance thought of this story whenever she played it, and once or twice, on a moonlight night, she had turned down the light, raised the shades, and in the semi-darkness had tried it over for Uncle Geoff, as they sat together in the moonlit parlor. To her own and his astonishment, she found that she was able to do so without a mistake.

"I believe it's because I'm thinking of the story," she exclaimed, "and not about my notes!"

Uncle Geoff was delighted. "Constance," he announced, "if you do as well as that on the night of the recital, I'll take you with me on my trip to Europe this summer."

That almost took Constance's breath away.

"Oh, Uncle Geoff, you darling!" she replied. "I can hardly believe it. But there's just one trouble. It's all right when I play for just you, or Mother and Father, but I'm horribly nervous about playing before many people. I always make some dreadful mistake, or have to stop entirely. I'm certain I'll do something awful on the night of the recital. I fairly shake with fright whenever I think of it; but, oh! I do so want to go to Europe with you!"

"You may be frightened for a moment or two, when you begin, but that will pass away, and I've perfect faith in you, that you will do well. Remember, Constance, I have absolute confidence in you, and you mustn't disappoint me!" answered Uncle Geoff.

Thus, on the morning of the eventful day, was Constance filled with delightful anticipation and nervous dread. So much hung in the balance: not only the trip to Europe, and the approval of her parents and friends, but Uncle Geoff's confidence in her. And, somehow, that counted most of all.

Madame had advised her not to practise much that day, but twice she went to the piano and played the sonata through, and each time she made several new and hitherto unthought-of mistakes. This, of course, worried her greatly, and added to her nervousness. In the afternoon, her mother insisted that she must lie down and try to take a nap. But sleep was far from her, and her restless fingers were constantly shaping themselves to execute the familiar chords and runs. Finally, after an early dinner, the time came for her to be arrayed in the dainty blue crêpe-de-chine dress that her mother's skilful fingers had for days past been fashioning. Then they were all whirled away in the carriage Uncle Geoff had provided for the occasion. A splendid full moon flooded the May landscape with almost the brightness of day. "This is just the night for a 'moonlight sonata,' little one," whispered Uncle Geoff, pinching the serious face laughingly. "Cheer up, my hearty!"

But Constance was feeling anything but cheerful, and grew soberer every moment. The next thing she knew, they were in the great studio, unfamiliar in its gorgeous decorations, and rows upon rows of chairs steadily being filled by invited guests and friends of the students.

Constance found herself seated by the two grand pianos, among a crowd of pupils gaily dressed, all older than herself— some long since "grown up." They were all chattering among themselves, and nervously fussing with their music, ribbons, and bouquets. She felt very much alone, and horribly frightened. The white glare of the electric lights, the sea of unfamiliar faces, Madame de Chanwix moving about majestically in a wonderful spangled robe, the ceaseless buzz of conversation all over the fast-filling room, oppressed the nervous girl with a dreary sense of forlornness. In a far corner she could catch a glimpse, now and then, of Uncle Geoff's smiling face. She longed to rush to him, implore him to take her away, and never, never ask her to play a note of music again.

Suddenly Madame stepped to the front of the pianos and there was a hush. The silence seemed to Constance more appalling than the previous noise. The program was to begin with an eight-handed selection on the two pianos. Constance fairly jumped at the crash of sound with which it commenced, but the remainder of it was only an unmeaning, idle clatter in her ears, and she sat with her hands gripped together in her lap; for her turn was to come next.

There was a burst of applause as the music ceased, and then another tense silence. Constance wished madly that they would all chatter and buzz again as they had before the program commenced. As Madame led her to the piano, she broke into a cold perspiration, and her knees shook so that she could hardly walk. In all her consciousness, nothing stood out but the blinding glare of the lights, and the sea of staring faces.

She was to play without her notes, and when she was seated she raised her hands to the keys. Then she realized with a great throb of her heart, that she could not, for the life of her, remember how the thing began. Her memory was as blank of all those months of practice as though she had never touched a piano! Madame's quick eye discerned her predicament, and in an instant she had the notes on the rack before the trembling girl.

Constance's fingers found the proper keys and she played the opening bar, but in a moment the page blurred and became a mere meaningless jumble before her eyes. Again she began it, got to the same place, and again the notes ran together. Then, scarcely knowing what she did, she closed the music, left the piano-stool, and found herself in her seat. Two or three of the pupils giggled hysterically, and she was conscious that Madame was apologizing to the audience for her nervousness. Another performer took her place and the concert went on.

Constance heard nothing, saw nothing, realized nothing but the crushing burden of her humiliation and defeat. She had forfeited the trip to Europe, of course. That was as nothing to her now. She only longed for the evening to end, that she might crawl away and hide herself like some wounded animal. Her parents and friends were all sorry for her, and rather ashamed of her blunder, she supposed. But even that was nothing to the fact that she had forever destroyed the confidence of Uncle Geoff. He had believed in her. He had spent his money on her musical education—and for this!

She sat white and motionless during the rest of the program. Student after student performed her part with more or less credit, and was duly and enthusiastically applauded. But Constance heard naught of it. Her one thought was: "Will it never end?" She did not dare to glance at Uncle Geoff's corner. Just before the last selection—another eight-handed piece—some one handed Constance a small folded note. She opened it mechanically, and read these words:

The little scrap of paper pierced Constance's gloom like a ray of hope. She hadn't forfeited that confidence yet! It hardly seemed possible! A moment ago, nothing would have induced her to touch the piano again. Now a sudden idea occurred to her, and she beckoned Madame to her side and whispered timidly:

"I think I could try again, if you wanted me to; and, Madame, could you turn out the lights and let in a little of the moonlight?" It was a novel idea, but Madame was clever enough to seize it and put it to excellent use. She stepped to the front, and announced that Miss Constance was now ready to perform her part—the "Moonlight Sonata." Then, in a few short, telling sentences she gave the history of its composition—the story so dear to Constance—and ended by saying that with the permission of the audience, the lights would be extinguished and the selection rendered in the moonlight.

With a "click" the electric lights were turned off, and simultaneously some one drew up the shades of the broad, high studio windows. The silvery, misty light fell directly on the piano, and left the rest of the room in practical darkness. A fragrant May breeze wafted in the perfume of the wistaria vines. There was breathless silence in the room.

When Constance again took her place at the piano, she found that her heart had stopped the terrible thumping, she breathed naturally, and her fingers sought and found, without effort, the correct opening notes. All the staring sea of faces was shut away by the friendly darkness, and only the familiar moonlight was about her. As the hushed harmonies flowed forth under her fingers, almost of their own accord, she forgot her audience entirely, and even Uncle Geoff. She only heard the indescribable succession of sounds, but her thoughts were back in another century and another land: in a little cottage where a great master was drawing from a humble instrument the wonder of an improvised moonlight sonata.

When the last chord of the agitato had died away, she dropped her hands in her lap, and sat dreaming through a moment of intense silence. Suddenly there was a deafening burst of applause, the lights went up with a snap, and Constance, dazzled and bewildered, realized that it was all over, and for some reason—she couldn't imagine what—the people were wild with enthusiasm—clapping, cheering, waving handkerchiefs, and Madame, with true French effusiveness, was hugging and kissing her, and calling her "vun leetle darling!"

With a half timid bow she reached her seat, just as a lovely little bouquet of pink roses was handed to her. As the cheering finally ended, and the last number was being given, Constance came gradually to herself, and knew that she had vindicated the faith of her dear ones, and scored the success of the evening. Attached to her bouquet was a little envelop, and from it she drew a tiny card on which had been hastily scrawled:

"But it was only Uncle Geoff's belief in me that did it!" sighed Constance happily.