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Updated: August 28, 2024
The Nina whom he had always known was a light-hearted and laughing companion, eagerly talkative, a smile on her parted lips, affection, kindliness ever present in her shining, soft, dark eyes. Sometimes silent, too; sometimes, again, singing a fragment of one of the old familiar folk-songs of her youth. What was that one with the refrain, "Io te voglio bene assaje, e tu non pienz' a me"?
That night, at twenty-one o'clock, Hermione and Lucrezia stood under the arch, and watched Maurice and Gaspare springing down the mountain-side as if in seven-leagued boots. Soon they disappeared into the darkness of the ravine, but for some time their loud voices could be heard singing lustily: "Ciao, ciao, ciao, Morettina bella ciao, Prima di partire Un bacio ti voglio da'; Un bacio al pap
That young lady, as soon as she heard Miss Rothesay's steps overhead, bounded to the half-open window, moving quite as easily on the injured foot as on the other. Eagerly she listened; and soon was rewarded by hearing Lyle's voice carolling pathetically down the road, the ditty, "Io ti voglio ben assai, Ma tu non pensi a me!" "Tis my song, mine! I taught him!" said Christal, laughing to herself.
Zara, who among her other accomplishments had the secret of making coffee to perfection, promised laughingly to make it extra well, and flitted from the room, singing softly as she went a fragment of the Neapolitan Stornello: "Fior di mortelle Queste manine tue son tanto belle! Fior di limone Ti voglio far morire di passione Salta! lari lira." The letter Zara had brought me was from Mrs.
He had only been twenty-four hours in the city, when chance had led him under the balcony where the sculptured angels fronted the moon, and from whence the sweet voice of Sylvie Hermenstein had floated towards him with the words, "Ti voglio ben assai, E tu non pensi a me."
O'Callaghan on his last legs. And Madame. Twenty past eleven. Up. Mrs Fleming is in to clean. Doing her hair, humming. voglio e non vorrei. No. vorrei e non. Looking at the tips of her hairs to see if they are split. Mi trema un poco il. Beautiful on that tre her voice is: weeping tone. A thrush. A throstle. There is a word throstle that expresses that.
I could ask him perhaps about how to pronounce that voglio. But then if he didn't know only make it awkward for him. Better not. We can do that, the foreman said. Have you the design? I can get it, Mr Bloom said. It was in a Kilkenny paper. He has a house there too. I'll just run out and ask him. Well, you can do that and just a little par calling attention. You know the usual.
Following the pointing of her finger he took up a leg of her soiled drawers from the bed. No? Then, a twisted grey garter looped round a stocking: rumpled, shiny sole. No: that book. Other stocking. Her petticoat. It must have fell down, she said. He felt here and there. Voglio e non vorrei. Wonder if she pronounces that right: voglio. Not in the bed. Must have slid down.
Why do you not write your poetry in that language? Bella Poetria! It is so melodious and full. Belladonna. Voglio. Stephen, who was trying his dead best to yawn if he could, suffering from lassitude generally, replied: To fill the ear of a cow elephant. They were haggling over money. Is that so? Mr Bloom asked.
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