"Congratulations, madam. I sincerely believe that your son is a genius in music."
At the age of six, Panthonia saw his violin teacher standing by the door, saying to his mother. His mother turned to look at Panthonia, her eyes filled with pride, and then took the violin teacher's coat from the coat rack and handed it to him. They stood there and talked for a while, then walked out together.
Panthonia returned to his room. The applause seemed to still be ringing in his ears; these sounds made him excited but also a little annoyed. He had been studying the violin for a year and a half, and half an hour ago, he had his first performance in a small theater not far from home. There were many important people in the audience, at least that's what his parents told him. He didn't think his performance matched his practice level because someone sitting in the front row of the audience made it hard for him to concentrate. He must be the most important person among the important people, because before the performance began, everyone was eager to talk to him. Throughout the performance, his mind seemed to be completely off the stage, just constantly whispering to his companion next to him, causing some laughter that was exclusive to the two of them.
From history books, Panthonia roughly understood the meaning of the word "genius." If someone does things very successfully and others are willing to serve him, willing to write books about him after his death, then that person is a genius. But if the important people in the audience didn't like him, how could he become a genius as the teacher said?
He went to his brother's bedroom. His younger brother, two years younger, had not attended the concert because he was feverish and had been asleep for a while. Since I'm not a genius, what will happen to my brother in the future? Panthonia had eavesdropped on his parents' arguments many times: Mother wanted the younger son to learn another stringed instrument, but Father completely opposed the arrangement, saying that the Shawl family had once been elite on the battlefield and could not approve of his wife's ridiculous hope of forming a family chamber ensemble.
"You will ruin my face," Father said.
A spider crawled onto the railing of his brother's bed. Panthonia pinched it to death, then hurried to wash his hands. After washing his hands, he met Stevens, the old butler who had served the Shawl family for fifty years, in the hallway.
"Master, your hands are still wet," he said, pulling out a handkerchief to wipe Panthonia's hands. "I have to say, your performance was absolutely wonderful."
Panthonia withdrew his hand. This man always spoke too positively, how could his words be trusted?
Three months later, his parents invited an old couple to dinner. His mother told Panthonia that the guests were the principals of the best art school in Lordaeron. "If your father does business carefully, you don't have to worry about the tuition." Mother said while straightening her son's collar, "In any case, you must be polite. When performing for the principal, don't be nervous..."
From the beginning of the dinner, Mother's eyes were more focused on her husband than on Panthonia. She had reasons to do so.
"Your Excellency," Father said, "What role do you think music plays in a person's growth?"
"Music has too many benefits for me to list in such a short time. But I have always believed that its most important function is to expand a person's imagination, improve his cultivation, and even purify his soul. And after all, music is so beautiful that we can't help but love her, can we?"
"That is to say, music exists purely for personal satisfaction and enjoyment. So for the future of an entire country, music education is not something meaningful."
"You're exaggerating a bit with that statement. When a person's cultural literacy improves, the whole country..."
"No, I'm serious, I just want to offer another perspective. On the battlefield, what soldiers need first is a strong body, a sharp sword, or a fragile violin bow? At meetings where important national policies are decided, do lawmakers need extensive legal knowledge, eloquent language skills, or just a few random notes on the piano?"
"Right, dear," the principal's wife said to the person next to her. "Wasn't the priest supposed to visit tonight? Maybe we should go back early."
The dinner ended half an hour earlier than expected. The old couple did not listen to Panthonia's performance.
After trying to schedule the next meeting and sending the guests away, the first thing Mother did when she returned to the front door was to slap her husband, who was still sitting at the dining table.
"You bitch," Father stood up, "What are you going crazy for?"
"Me, crazy? Who's gone crazy? I don't know... What have you turned this into? I've worked so hard, so hard to invite..."
Stevens walked up to Panthonia, tightening his grip on his hand. "Let's go upstairs, Master."
This time Panthonia didn't pull his hand away.
A month later, his parents' marriage ended. Mother wanted to take Panthonia away, but didn't get permission from the court. Later, he heard that his mother went to live elsewhere with the violin teacher; and his father smashed the violin in the house, throwing the scraps into the bonfire, whether it happened before or after this news, Panthonia didn't have a clear memory. Not only was there no trace of music left in the Shawl mansion, his father couldn't even tolerate others enjoying music, except for military music and the national anthem. He criticized folk tunes at carnivals for being too frivolous, and the popular dance music at youth dances for being too obscene, writing letters to the authorities or publishing articles demanding the banning of various public music events. People secretly gave him a nickname, "Deaf Shawl," and unanimously believed that he had become like this only because his wife ran away with the musician.
Since there was no need to play the violin anymore, Panthonia's life was filled with various courses. He had nothing to complain about, after all, playing the violin was not his personal choice from the beginning, and all he needed to do was to try his best to complete the tasks arranged by his parents—now his father. He no longer thought that the word "genius" had anything to do with him; he just worked hard.
Everything seemed to be going smoothly. Nothing could defeat him. Father thought that the unnamed public school was limiting his son's development, but it was difficult to afford the tuition fees of the noble academy, so he simply let him stay at home and study on his own.
As for Panthonia's younger brother, it was another matter altogether. He could hardly learn anything, not even concentrating on reading for three minutes. He doodled in textbooks, gambled with pebbles with poor children, and scared livestock with firecrackers for fun. At the age of six, Father gave up on his younger son and drove him to a cluttered room outside the mansion. The expelled child showed no signs of sadness at all; he found it interesting, like camping without a time limit, and it was much easier to sneak out at night.
One night, his brother brought Panthonia into his own little room. As soon as he stepped into the room, the stuffy heat and smell made Panthonia uncomfortable, but he stayed anyway.
"The enemy is launching a major attack tonight," his brother said, "We must repel them and uphold the honor of the Shawl family."
They climbed onto the roof of the small house, hiding under a dark brown blanket, spending almost the entire night shooting pedestrians with slingshots and secretly laughing at the enemy's reactions. But out of the honor of men, they didn't shoot at women and children.
The next morning, Father burst into the small room, dragged Panthonia out, then went back into the room and closed the door. Suddenly, Panthonia heard the sound of someone practicing the violin in a house across the street; it was a practice piece he was once familiar with, and he wondered where the performer went wrong. But even doing so couldn't stop the sounds of his father's whip and his brother's crying from gradually magnifying in his mind until he couldn't bear it. For some reason, he just stood there and listened, without leaving. People said that although "Deaf Shawl" had a bad temper, he was indeed a model father because he invested all his efforts in his eldest son's education and never beat or scolded him. What else could he complain about?
His brother's little room was not far from where the servants lived, so since being banned from entering the mansion, he often went to play with the servants. Stevens had a hobby of making small toys and crafts, and his brother quickly became his student. For Deaf Shawl, it was too late to discover his younger son's desire to learn now, and making toys was not a hobby worthy of his attention.
Panthonia had always been interested in what Stevens and his brother were busy with in the small workshop. He never had the opportunity to find out.
On his eleventh birthday, outside the small workshop, his brother handed him an inconspicuous music box.
"It was made by Stevens and me," he said. "Happy birthday, brother."
"Only this key can make it play," he handed over a small key, and continued, "So even if Dad sees it, he won't know what it's for."
His brother's skin was dark, as if the brown blanket he often used had stained him. His sleeves were rolled up, with whip marks on his forearms. There was always an indelible smell of sweat on him. Panthonia hardly recognized the person in front of him; his brother was like a collection of all the ordinary children that Father forbade him to associate with—noisy, stubborn, unconcerned about anything beyond his own little world, but possessing a honesty that even he didn't understand.
Panthonia took the music box back to his room and locked the door. He placed it on the table, about to insert the key into the keyhole, but then stood up again to double-check if the door was locked properly. Returning to the table, he didn't sit down immediately, instead turning around and kneeling on the floor to listen if Father was still in the downstairs living room or already resting in the bedroom. On his third return to the table, he finally sat down and casually pulled the blanket from the bed, covering his head and the music box together.
The key slid into the lock. Musical notes in the darkness docked in his mind. The melody was simple yet pure, unlike anything he had heard elsewhere. This didn't make him nostalgic for the days of practicing the violin because this was created solely for him by his brother and Stevens. G minor belonged to others. The rests belonged to others. The moderato belonged to others. But this, belonged only to him. Remembering the score was certainly not difficult, but in the days to come, recalling the melody didn't bring back any of the feelings from that time; instead, it brought a sense of melancholy. At the age of six, he had performed diligently and futilely for many people, but this music box was only for him, a performance held solely for him.
Panthonia saw a hint of panic in Hilsbeth's eyes. He suddenly realized he didn't intend to scare her.
"I just wanted to know," he paused, adjusting his tone, "I just wanted to know where you learned this tune from."
"I... My grandfather taught me."
"What's your grandfather's name?"
"Stevens."
Of course, Stevens also had his own family; they lived in the suburbs, and he had the opportunity to visit them once every three months. That was all Panthonia knew about the old butler's personal life—more than he needed to know.
"He's a butler and also enjoys making small toys. On our way into exile, he told me he had composed this tune in a music box..."
She frowned, beginning to look at him with a slightly curious expression.
"Don't tell anyone I was here today," he said, turning towards the door as soon as he finished speaking.
"Panthonia," she said.
He opened the door, stepped out, and quickly left.