Castellinaria, and Other Sicilian Diversions

by Henry Festing Jones

In this enclosure is the famous Fontana Aretusa, but there is nothing about it that reminds one of the fountains of the Crystal Palace or of Versailles. One first catches sight of a pond and then of a spring bubbling into it with irresistible volubility at the north end; at the south end the water tumbles out into the harbour through a hole in the sea wall. The surface of the pond is below the level of the passeggiata and probably the bed of it is below the level of the water in the harbour, so that, as Cicero observed, it is the wall that keeps out the waves and if the hole had been pierced lower the pond would be submerged by the sea. On the sides of the cliff and on the wall grow plants with aromatic leaves and flowers, and one can walk round the pond and watch the fish which are, or ought to be, the descendants of those which Cicero saw, as they swim about among the roots of Ptolemy’s papyrus. The water is not now used for washing, but I suspect that the Sidonian woman who stole the little Eumæus was so using it, for she was washing near the ship of her countrymen when they got into conversation with her, and their ship would be moored in the Great Harbour, close by the fountain.

I drank of this water, following the example of all visitors and of many of the inhabitants who believe it to produce a beneficial effect upon the digestion. It may have been good enough for Nelson, and I trust that the digestions of his sailors derived benefit from it—anyhow, they had victory at the battle of the Nile—but for a modern Londoner, accustomed to do business with the Metropolitan Water Board, it is too salt, which is perhaps why the papyrus here looks less flourishing than that up the Anapo. The water tastes as though Arethusa had been the heroine of another story besides the one with the uncertain ending about Alpheus—one with Neptune as the villain and an ending tragic enough to justify S. Paul in his

attitude towards the nymph. Some who adopt this view suppose that Neptune’s designs were forwarded by an earthquake which, they think, must have occurred since Nelson’s time, because he speaks as though he gave his sailors the water of the spring; but that is not enough to date the disturbance. It is some distance from Greece to Sicily, and along all those miles, during all those ages, there may have been many earthquakes, any one of which would have served Neptune’s turn; some may have been before S. Paul’s time, some before Eumæus was born, some in still earlier days. If the earthquake had already been, Nelson must have observed the brackishness of the spring and he would then have preferred to take his water from the usual fresh source which supplied the inhabitants of his day, and, in speaking of “having watered at the fountain of Arethusa,” he would be trusting to Lady Hamilton’s familiarity with that figure which permits the part to be put for the whole.

I have visited Arethusa many times. Once, on a calm evening in early summer, Diana was high up in the sky, shining over the harbour; although, like others, she may not have been sure which was her temple and which was Minerva’s, she could not help wondering whether anything was ever going to be done about openly restoring them both to their ancient worship. She was, however, comforting herself in the meantime with the reflection that neither she nor Minerva had much to complain of, inasmuch as it was clear that if it were not for the support of those Doric columns the modern Church would not stand as it does, and after all, she thought, “What’s in a name?” Down below in the passeggiata, officers and young men were strolling about, listening to a pot-pourri of Faust. Their cheeks were shaved smooth to show the modelling and their moustaches gave evidence of hours of toil and even suffering; they met their friends and gesticulated with them, smoking cigarettes and being polite to everyone. Mothers and elder sisters in cool white dresses sat under the trees,

and little parties of children darted away from them, hand in hand, returning after breathless excursions. I took a seat among it all and, as the King of Thule, in honour of his lady, was drinking for the last time out of his golden cup, a young voice over my shoulder demanded two soldi. I turned and thought I recognised the speaker; surely he must have left his dolphin in the Great Harbour where the Phœnician traders used to moor their ships, and put on his sailor suit at the Custom House.

“Very well, Cupid,” I replied, “I don’t mind giving you two soldi, but why do you ask as though you were entitled to them? And why do you wear that red tam-o’-shanter? And how old are you, if you please?”

He said he was seven and the cap was his uniform; he was collecting the pennies for the chairs. So I gave him two soldi and another for himself and saw him scamper happily away and join a knot of brother Cupids who were playing together round a lamp-post. He showed them the soldo I had given him for himself and the meeting became as ebullient and full of excitement as the Arethusa herself.

He reappeared while Siebel, with the voice of a clarinet, was beginning to tell the flowers what they were to say to Margherita. This time he brought a foreign penny and wanted to know why they had refused to take it at the marionette theatre. I looked at it and said:

“If you want to know about this coin, mount your dolphin again and direct his course to distant Argentina, the people of that country will tell you all about it and will give you its full value. You will have a delightful voyage and, if I were not such a bad sailor, I believe I should ask you to take me with you.”

It seemed, however, that his dolphin was tired and I was to give him ten centimes down and done with it. He was such a jolly little fellow that just for the pleasure of seeing him smile again I gave him the soldi in exchange for his coin and he danced away in delight.