ion of skill on the
part of his youngest performer, and he contented himself with
admonishing Beethoven not to attempt any more clever tricks.

There was a dream which had taken possession of young Beethoven's mind
at this time. It was constantly recurring during the hours of work,
and when he lay down to sleep in his poorly-furnished attic it was
with the hope that the dawning of a new day might bring him nearer to
its realisation. Yet for some time the dream remained only a shadowy
companion to his working thoughts, ever present, it is true, and
sometimes glowing in brighter colours that seemed to give to it the
semblance of reality--but still, only a dream. But the vision seen
afar off was to be realised at length--Beethoven was to visit Vienna!
It was the city of his dreams, the centre of his longings, this
Vienna, just as it was the centre of the musical world of Germany at
that time. A kind friend had come forward with the offer to pay his
expenses for the journey, and Ludwig knew that his dream had come
true.

As we have seen, the dire straits into which the family had fallen had
not hindered Beethoven's pursuit of musical knowledge. His genius had
steadily asserted itself under the most adverse conditions; and now we
are to picture the young musician, at the age of seventeen, full of
fire and energy, setting out on a journey which must have been fraught
with the brightest anticipations. He was to meet in Vienna the
greatest composer of the day. Mozart--the divine Mozart--was staying
in the city, planning the production of his opera, 'Don Giovanni,'
and it had been arranged that he should receive Beethoven and put his
powers to the test.

On reaching Vienna, Ludwig made his way to Mozart's house, and with a
heart beating high with expectancy, and a face aglow with excitement,
he was ushered into the presence of the maestro. Mozart received him
kindly, but it was evident that his thoughts were preoccupied, for,
after desiring Beethoven to play, he began to turn over his papers in
a listless fashion. 'Ah!' thought Beethoven; 'he imagines that I have
merely come to play him something which I have practised for the
occasion.' Dismayed by this reflection, he took his hands from the
keyboard and, turning to Mozart, said, 'Will you give me a theme on
which to extemporise?' Aroused by his appeal, and the earnest look
which accompanied it, Mozart sat down and played a simple theme; and
then Beethoven, taking up the sl