"What a waste of time," I sigh, as the players put down their bows after a performance of Mendelssohn's Quintet, and the hall goes wild. A woman in front of us turns with hot contempt: "You think you can do better?" What does she mean? Better at what? At playing, at composing? No, I couldn't do better, I couldn't do at all. I can't play a file, and I sing a different language from the precocious Mendelssohn.