He got into the sitting-room one day, by himself, and found out that he could make a noise by striking the keys, and then he discovered that he could make tunes, and pick out the ones that were always ringing in his head.
After that he could hardly be dragged away from it, so that I sent him to school to have some quiet in the house.
He was a clever boy, and I taught him Latin and gave him our poets to read; and as he grew up I would have made a scholar of him, but he would not.

At least, he was willing to learn and to read; but he was always singing too.

Once I caught him declaiming "Arma virumque cano" to an air from Trovatore, and I knew he could never be a scholar then, though he might know a great deal.

Besides, he always preferred Dante to Virgil, and Leopardi to Horace.
One day, when he was sixteen or thereabouts, he was making a noise, as usual, shouting some motive or other to Mariuccia and the cat, while I was labouring to collect my senses over a lecture I had to prepare.
Suddenly his voice cracked horribly and his singing ended in a sort of groan.

It happened again once or twice, the next day, and then the house was quiet.