sm.

On arriving at Goethe's home they found the poet walking in his
grounds. The meeting was simple and affectionate. Goethe greeted Felix
with every show of kindness, and sent the boy to bed with an
overflowing heart and a mind resolved upon cherishing the minutest
details of this happy encounter. The next day he was to play to
Goethe, and at an early hour of the morning he was sauntering in the
grounds, awaiting the poet's arrival, and feasting his eyes upon the
scenes which were the accustomed haunts of the author of 'Faust'; and
then, selecting a sunny spot, he sat down to write a long letter home,
full of description of the events of the previous day.

Nothing short of the severest of tests would satisfy Goethe of the
truth of what Zelter had privately conveyed to him regarding his
pupil's talents. Accordingly, sheet after sheet of manuscript music
was selected by the poet from his store and placed upon the
music-desk to be played by Felix at sight. The manner in which he
performed his task, the ease with which he overcame the difficulties
presented by penwork of various styles, and often far from clear,
astonished and delighted the assembled company. But their
manifestations of delight were far more pronounced when Felix, taking
one of the airs which he had just played as a theme for
extemporisation, exhibited in a most charming fashion, and with true
musicianly feeling, the capacities of the subject for varied
treatment. Still Goethe withheld his praise, and, interrupting the
applause, declared that he had a final test to propose which, he
jokingly warned Felix, would infallibly cause him to break down. Thus
speaking, the poet placed on the desk a sheet of manuscript which at
first sight was enough to strike terror and dismay into the stoutest
heart, for it seemed to consist of nothing else than scratches and
splotches of ink, interspersed with smudges. Mendelssohn glanced at
it, and then, bursting into a laugh, exclaimed: 'What writing! How can
it be possible to read such manuscript?' Suddenly he became serious,
and bent to examine the writing more closely, Goethe looked
triumphantly round at the company. 'Now, guess _who_ wrote that!' he
said. Zelter rose from his place beside the pianoforte, and, looking
over Felix's shoulder, cried out: 'Why, it is Beethoven's writing! One
can see that a mile off! He always writes as if he used a broomstick
for a pen, and then wiped his sleeve over the wet ink!'

Mendels