Chapter 62
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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 62
Chapter Title: Learn or Imitate (3)
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“The repeated octave strikes with both hands lose power toward the end, so the parts that needed emphasis didn’t quite land.”
“I’ll need to practice the octaves more with a slower tempo instead of in tempo.”
Harsh critiques.
“There were some mistakes in the leaps, especially.”
“Didn’t you practice Tchaikovsky well? How much did you practice that one to have such a difference?”
These were sharp arrows flying straight at me.
It wasn’t like I was some mischievous ringmaster tossing apologies and banana peels at the circus troupe. Naturally, they were all constructive feedback.
But it still stung all the same.
“Still, the musicality was the best it’s been so far, I think……”
“Seung-min, wasn’t that the Wanderer Fantasy you just played? Same piece as him.”
“Hold off on the comparisons.”
“The expression was good. Even considering the lesson teacher’s take.”
A soothing balm followed the sharp lash of the rod. My mind eased a bit…… but the next words cut to the bone.
“If you’re changing fingerings because repeated notes are tough, at least don’t mess up. It stands out even more when you only miss with the left hand—do some actual research before practicing.”
A killer blow from Myeong Woo-bin, who had been standing there arms crossed, dissecting my performance down to the tiniest detail.
“Practice comes before analysis, though. It’d help if you backed up your own words with some credibility.”
And Seol Yu-jin’s finisher, stabbing right at my vitals with a criticism that felt oddly familiar.
“That’s what Myeong Woo-bin said at the start of the semester.”
The teacher jogged a memory she’d forgotten.
In the end, I’d heard the exact same thing from both Myeong Woo-bin and Seol Yu-jin.
“……”
I glanced at Seol Yu-jin, who’d whipped her head away, then stepped back.
Seo Ye-ri stepped forward, still catching her breath from her just-finished performance.
“Ye-ri…… hmm.”
“……It was good, yeah.”
As I listened to the feedback directed at Seo Ye-ri, I couldn’t shake an odd sense of dissonance.
“The melody emphasis could be stronger.”
“Nailing the harmonies accurately would make it easier to listen to, right?”
The feedback I’d gotten had been incredibly detailed. Pointers that no one could make without scrutinizing my playing inside and out.
But with Seo Ye-ri, no direct daggers flew. It was all roundabout or extremely general advice.
‘Is she holding back, or does she really not know enough to say more?’
Seo Ye-ri nodded solemnly, but there was no sign of any sudden realization dawning on her.
I could point out way more specifics right now if I wanted……
“Next, Brahms Intermezzo.”
The teacher impassively called the next turn in her dry voice.
I sat down right away and stared blankly at the score on the stand.
Brahms, Intermezzo Op.118 No.2.
I sum up this piece in one word:
Stranger.
Brahms was supported by Robert and Clara Schumann.
Sadly, Brahms admired Robert’s wife, Clara—his patron and the patron’s wife.
But Clara’s fidelity and love never wavered. Even after Robert passed early, she rejected Brahms’s confession.
After that, Brahms never expressed his feelings to Clara again.
No, he couldn’t.
For forty years after Robert’s death, while serving the Schumann household devotedly like a faithful servant, he couldn’t confess his love until Clara herself departed this world.
In the end, Clara was buried with Robert. Her grave faces his.
Intermezzo, Op.118, No.2.
This piece is Brahms’s dedication to Clara Schumann.
Brahms died the year after Clara.
While alive, he wrote to her:
“I have always been a stranger to you.”
He devoted his life to holding onto an impossible love, even if only in the form of friendship.
It’s heartbreaking.
The desperate melody filling the piece doesn’t express grand sorrow like losing one’s homeland. It doesn’t convey the emptiness of a life torn apart like losing one’s parents.
It simply sinks.
How deep can love for one person go? As if testing that limit…… it simply sinks.
Thoom—!
I pressed down on the air with sound.
This piece needs density. A choking, suffocating density that pulls the audience in.
Every note without gaps, infused with the guilt and longing Brahms carried his whole life.
Heavy, yet floating lightly.
Suppressed, yet bursting uncontrollably.
Restrained, yet free.
“Haa.”
No instruction from the teacher to stop, so I played to the end.
Scattered, irregular applause trickled out here and there.
“Hey, it’s not an exam—what’s with the clapping?”
“Oh.”
No more notes to sound before me. My dazed mind began to clear. I wiped the light sweat from my forehead and stood from the bench.
The teacher said nothing, nor did the other kids sitting there.
“Next, Seo Ye-ri.”
Feedback later, then. I quickly yielded the spot to Seo Ye-ri.
I caught a glimpse of her tense face. I almost said not to be so nervous since it was just class, but held back to avoid breaking her focus.
‘She studied a bit. It’s decent.’
Hearing Seo Ye-ri’s first notes, I slowly nodded.
Maybe the shock from the second evaluation had turned positive, or she’d put in a lot of practice since.
‘……What’s this?’
The thought crossed my mind just as my lips curled up slightly—then snapped right back.
It felt familiar. Seo Ye-ri wasn’t playing her performance right now.
‘She’s copying.’
Where had I heard this interpretation and technique before? That’s why it felt so familiar.
I pondered deeply, and soon enough, my tightly pressed lips parted in realization.
‘……My playing.’
Seo Ye-ri was straining with all her might to copy my performance from moments ago, note for note.
Choi Je-hun had no time to marvel at Kwon Do-hyun’s stunning, unexpected performance.
“Stop.”
He cut off the roughly two-minute performance with a single word.
Seo Ye-ri slowly turned her head, lifting her hands from the keys. Her eyes held no conviction.
“Seo Ye-ri.”
“Yes.”
“What are you doing right now?”
Tempo rubato. Specific measures with accents or faded touches.
Seo Ye-ri had copied Kwon Do-hyun’s interpretation exactly.
If she’d just mimicked the surface, it might’ve been fine—but trying to grasp everything from a quick glance turned it into a laughable, degraded replay of the previous performance.
“I haven’t studied the piece enough yet…… so I referenced Do-hyun’s interpretation.”
“That wasn’t just referencing.”
“I listened to a few other recordings too, but Do-hyun’s felt closest to the right answer.”
Right answer.
Choi Je-hun had read Baek Ji-ho’s interview recently. The word “right answer” had irked him then…… and hearing it here now was unexpected.
“Kwon Do-hyun, did you study this piece separately?”
“No, it’s just a piece I’ve always liked, so I naturally picked up bits of info here and there.”
“Is there any piece you don’t like?”
Kwon Do-hyun scratched the back of his head sheepishly and replied.
“……Not really.”
He paused as if thinking, then added with a short exclamation.
“Lately, I’ve grown a bit tired of difficult modern pieces.”
Choi Je-hun, not quite grasping the meaning, shot him a puzzled look before turning away.
“Say something.”
The students stayed silent for a bit, exchanging glances and mumbling words under their breath in the awkward air.
Baek Ji-ho broke the ice with a small smile.
“Do-hyun, before the big finale phrase, there’s that long crescendo measure, right? How’d you handle from there?”
Kwon Do-hyun’s head tilted slightly.
“How’d I play it?”
“Yeah, the thematic emphasis carried so well to the end—it surprised me. Anything special you focused on?”
“Not really conscious of it…… but since the motive returns once more in the coda, it was prep for the wrap-up.”
As Kwon Do-hyun and Baek Ji-ho talked, the dazed kids quickly flipped open their scores to check the spot.
“Teacher, mind if I come up for a sec?”
Choi Je-hun answered Baek Ji-ho’s question with a gentle wave.
Baek Ji-ho approached the piano slowly, cane in hand, and gave Kwon Do-hyun a faint smile. Then, in an awkward posture, he tapped at the keys.
“This part—the left hand felt especially strong.”
“Ah, right before the fermata, the motive peeks out a bit, so here with the left hand…… I thought I needed to emphasize a lower note than the soprano.”
“Motive?”
“You can see it in the intro if you look closely. D-sharp, C-sharp, Re; D-sharp, C-sharp, La—like that.”
“Ah.”
The scattered fragments of the score in Baek Ji-ho’s mind clicked together like puzzle pieces.
“……For real?”
“The motive comes back one more time at the end.”
“I learned it appears in the middle too, so it threads through to the finish? This feels important.”
“Ah, that’s why……”
Finally grasping the subtle intent in Kwon Do-hyun’s playing, the kids scribbled furiously. They cross-referenced lesson notes, scores, and Kwon Do-hyun’s words in a frenzy.
They surely would’ve missed it without Baek Ji-ho pointing it out.
Baek Ji-ho nodded gravely, staring at the score on the stand, as short gasps of awe filled the room nonstop.
“Remember last time? When you came asking about homework.”
“Yeah.”
“So this is just from referencing recordings too?”
“Yeah, for this Intermezzo, I like Gould or Volodos…… Lupu. I’ve listened to them a lot.”
Analyzing performers’ styles while listening. Unfamiliar territory for most students—including Baek Ji-ho, of course.
Baek Ji-ho, diligently cataloging performer names in his head, nodded.
“Thanks, Do-hyun.”
“No big deal.”
Baek Ji-ho returned to his seat slowly, gazed into space, and spoke.
“I think the Intermezzo Kwon Do-hyun just played was perfect.”
His bolt-from-the-blue statement made the kids buried in their scores snap their heads up.
“Hey, I had a few missed notes……”
“Haha, do pros never miss? Same thing.”
Choi Je-hun silently observed the subtle tension between them.
“If you just polish up the first-theme pieces, you could hold onto first place from here on out—or that’s my take.”
Even Myeong Woo-bin and Seol Yu-jin, unmoved by the “perfect” claim, let their gazes grow heavy.
Seo Ye-ri, lips bitten and head bowed, soon flashed a bright smile. She grinned at Kwon Do-hyun next.
“That’s what he says. Anyone else have something to add?”
No time to dawdle, so Choi Je-hun rapped the podium to refocus the room.
The kids were too busy jotting desperate notes to even hear him.
“Nothing more? Class dismissed. Next call-up later.”
The walk home welcoming the weekend.
Baek Ji-ho, Lee Ha-yeon, and Myeong Woo-bin walked side by side after ages.
Have I ever had a hobby in my life? Lee Ha-yeon wondered blankly, gazing up at the sky.
“Liking classical that much—why’d you quit piano? Family poor?”
“Nah, from what I remember back then, they were pretty well-off.”
“What about the academy, Kwon Do-hyun?”
“Hmm, feels exactly the same as now. No changes.”
“Is that kind of taste just innate……”
Lee Ha-yeon snapped out of her haze.
She realized the two guys beside her were deep in talk about past Kwon Do-hyun.
“Do-hyun’s family isn’t poor. Seems well-off even now.”
Myeong Woo-bin shot her a bizarre look at her sudden input.
“How would you know about Kwon Do-hyun’s family?”
“We’re friends.”
Lee Ha-yeon emphasized “friends” heavily before clamming up.
Inside, she beamed with pride, but it didn’t show.
“So he was holed up at home just listening to classical all that time?”
“If so, wouldn’t Do-hyun’s personality mean he’d play piano too?”
“True.”
Matching pace with Baek Ji-ho’s steps meant the other two stopped often too.
Baek Ji-ho, pondering with his cane, spoke up.
“Not sure exactly, but it’s still amazing, right?”
“What is?”
“Do-hyun. I didn’t even know some of those assignment pieces. Thought I listened to a decent amount of music—turns out, arrogance.”
Myeong Woo-bin let his drifting thoughts slip away unanswered, shifting his gaze.
Baek Ji-ho was still inexplicably grinning; Lee Ha-yeon, still inexplicably blank-faced.
Nothing had changed from Ye-won Arts Middle School days to now.
Except Kwon Do-hyun’s sudden appearance.
“That thing you said in class earlier—was that for real?”
“What?”
“If he just fixes his technique…… Kwon Do-hyun could keep first place.”
Baek Ji-ho answered promptly, matter-of-factly, as if obvious.
“Yeah.”
Myeong Woo-bin stared at him with hollow eyes.
“Then stuff like the practical excellence recital or year orchestra concerto—it’d all go to Kwon Do-hyun, right?”
After some thought, Baek Ji-ho replied.
“I’d love to hear Do-hyun’s concerto again…… but I can’t yield that one.”
Can’t yield.
Myeong Woo-bin smirked at the rare glimpse of rivalry from Baek Ji-ho.
Lee Ha-yeon chimed in too.
“Me too. I want to perform.”
Her face pure, without a trace of rivalry.
Myeong Woo-bin snorted to wrap it up.
“Can’t yield either.”
Baek Ji-ho let out a small chuckle.
“Guess we’ll see at semester’s end. Who gets picked as soloist. Haha, I’m curious.”
Lee Ha-yeon, blankly following the convo, halted and recited flatly.
“Oh, and Do-hyun’s doing a collaboration recital with a second-year senior.”
“Whoa, Do-hyun’s popular.”
“What? How does a senior even know him to collab?”
Lee Ha-yeon shook her head slightly, clueless herself.
Baek Ji-ho looked up at Myeong Woo-bin with genuine admiration.
“Studying assignment pieces amid all that—when’d he even finish? Impressive, right? Do-hyun.”
Myeong Woo-bin eyed the beaming Baek Ji-ho and clicked his tongue.
“You insulting me right now?”
“Ahaha, you know that’s not what I mean.”