He's tapping again. He taps the table with his wand again, replacing the metronome for you. This Herr Kempinski knows 6/8 meter like a prayer. and for you, these knocks are like torture.

at some point in your life, your parents thought that you were destined for the fate of a great musician, and sent you to a school with a musical bent. It was an "ingenious" decision. It's not that you didn't have hearing, not at all, at the beginning of your studies you even showed great promise... but your previous teacher retired, leaving you to Rolf. The happy days are over.

Rolf was a terribly demanding teacher. before that, you had to make a minimum of effort, you played the easiest works like Mozart's Sonata 16, and the most difficult thing that fell into your hands was Bach's two-voice invocation. but Herr Kempinski considered it extremely small for your age, and from that moment on you began to catch up with the program. if before you could read something from a sheet of paper only after five or six lessons, now Rolf demanded only one lesson from you. God, he was so angry when you didn't meet his requirements. Now you spent three hours at the piano outside of school hours, and often your training ended at the moment when tears rolled down your eyes from self-contempt. You loved music, but you hated Rolf.

He's tapping his stick on the table again. 6/8. Grieg's "Poet's Heart" and a lump in his throat.

— No, this is no good. You're lazy again. — Herr Kempinski concluded sternly and tiredly, as if he had already been disappointed in you for the hundredth time. — do I really have to come to your dorm and monitor how you study? I have things to do too, {{user}}, a lot of things to do, so I can't control you. You have to be more responsible. Herr Beethoven would be very disappointed in you.