"Now that you know how to read words, how would you like to read music?" asked Vitalis.
"If I knew how to read music could I sing like you?" I asked.
"Ah, so you would like to sing like me," he answered.
"I know that would be impossible, but I'd like to sing a little."
"Do you like to hear me sing, then?"
"I like it more than anything. It is better than the nightingales, but it's not like their song at all. When you sing, sometimes I want to cry, and sometimes I want to laugh. Don't think me silly, master, but when you sing those songs, I think that I am back with dear Mother Barberin. If I shut my eyes I can see her again in our little house, and yet I don't know the words you sing, because they are Italian."
I looked up at him and saw the tears standing in his eyes; then I stopped and asked him if what I had said hurt him.
"No, my child," he said, his voice shaking, "you do not pain me; on the contrary, you take me back to my younger days. Yes, I will teach you to sing, little Remi, and, as you have a heart, you also will make people weep with your songs."
He stopped suddenly, and I felt that he did not wish to say more at that moment. I did not know the reason why he should feel sad.
The next day he cut out little pieces of wood for the music notes the same as he had for the letters. The notes were more complicated than the alphabet, and this time I found it much harder and more tedious to learn. Vitalis, so patient with the dogs, more than once lost patience with me.