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My only pleasant recollection of Ascot is that once, about midnight, as we were keeping watch together, a young Italian gunner from the Romagna sang to me. "'Addio, mia bell', addio! Cantava nel partir la gioventù, Mentre gl' imboscati si stavano Divertire, giornale in mano E la sigaretta. Per noi l'assalto Alla baionetta!
If I dropped in upon him in the afternoon I was apt to find him reading the old French poets, or the plays of Calderon, or the 'Divina Commedia', which he magnanimously supposed me much better acquainted with than I was because I knew some passages of it by heart. One day I came in quoting "Io son, cantava, io son dolce Sirena, Che i marinai in mezzo al mar dismago."
The incident closed in much mirth and friendliness. In the village were also billeted many Italian troops, who used to fill the night with song, long after most of us had gone to bed: "'Addio, mia bell', addio! Cantava nel partir la gioventù," which is never very far from the lips of any Italian soldier, and those endless stornelli, which to an invariable tune they multiply from day to day.
If I dropped in upon him in the afternoon I was apt to find him reading the old French poets, or the plays of Calderon, or the 'Divina Commedia', which he magnanimously supposed me much better acquainted with than I was because I knew some passages of it by heart. One day I came in quoting "Io son, cantava, io son dolce Sirena, Che i marinai in mezzo al mar dismago."
At this moment Count Sciarra, having finished his third cigarette, turned to his hostess and thanked her for having allowed him to meet the most beautiful women of London in the most beautiful house in London, and in the house of the most beautiful hostess in London. 'Io son, cantava, Io son, dolce sirena' Addio, dolce sirena."
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