Penelope's Postscripts, Page 3

  IX—LA FIN!

  The charred remains of _le petit_ Paul are being carried to the cemetery.The G. L. M. heads the procession in a white veil. In a prominent placeamong the mourners is “_le pauvre petit_ Charles,” so bowed with griefand remorse that he can scarcely be recognized.

  * * * * *

  It was a telling sermon! If I had been a child I should never havelooked at a match again; and old as I was, I could not, for daysafterwards, regard a box of them without a shudder. I thought thatprobably Yverdon had been visited in the olden time by a series ofdisastrous holocausts, all set by small boys, and that this was thepowerful antidote presented; so I asked the teacher whether incendiarismwas a popular failing in that vicinity and whether the chart was one of aseries inculcating various moral lessons. I don’t know whether sheunderstood me or not, but she said no, it was “_la méthode dePestalozzi_.”

  Just at this juncture she left the room, apparently to give the pupils abrief study-period, and simultaneously the concierge was calleddownstairs by a crying baby. A bright idea occurred to me and I wenthurriedly into the corridor where my friend was taking notes.

  “Salemina,” said I, “here is an opportunity of a lifetime! We ought toaddress these children in their native tongue. It will be something totalk about in educational pow-wows. They do not know that we aredistinguished visitors, but we know it. A female member of a SchoolBoard and the Honorary President of a Froebel Society owe a duty to theirconstituents. You go in and tell them who and what I am and make aspeech in French. Then I’ll tell them who and what you are and makeanother speech.”

  Salemina assumed a modest violet attitude, declined the honourabsolutely, and intimated that there were persons who would prefertalking in a language they didn’t know rather than to remain sensiblysilent.

  However the plan struck me as being so fascinating that I went backalone, looked all ways to see if any one were coming, mounted theplatform, cleared my throat, and addressed the awe-struck youngsters inthe following words. I will spare you the French, but you will perceiveby the construction of the sentences, that I uttered only thosesentiments possible in an early stage of language-study.

  “My dear children,” I began, “I live many thousand miles across the oceanin America. You do not know me and I do not know you, but I do know allabout your good Pestalozzi and I love him.”

  “_Il est mort_!” interpolated one offensive little girl in the front row.

  Salemina tittered audibly in the corridor, and I crossed the room andclosed the door. I think the children expected me to put the key in mypocket and then murder them and stuff them into the stove.

  “I know perfectly well that he is dead, my child,” I repliedwinningly,—“it is his life, his memory that I love.—And once upon a time,long ago, a great man named Friedrich Froebel came here to Yverdon andstudied with your great Pestalozzi. It was he who made kindergartens forlittle children, _jardins des enfants_, you know. Some of yourgrand-mothers remember Froebel, I think?”

  Hereupon two of the smaller chits shouted some sort of a negation which Idid not in the least comprehend, but which from large American experienceI took to be, “My grandmother doesn’t!” “My grandmother doesn’t!”

  Seeing that the others regarded me favourably, I continued, “It isbecause I love Pestalozzi and Froebel, that I came here to day to seeyour beautiful new monument. I have just bought a photograph taken onthat day last year when it was first uncovered. It shows the flags andthe decorations, the flowers and garlands, and ever so many childrenstanding in the sunshine, dressed in white and singing hymns of praise.You are all in the picture, I am sure!”

  This was a happy stroke. The children crowded about me and showed mewhere they were standing in the photograph, what they wore on the augustoccasion, how the bright sun made them squint, how a certain_malheureuse_ Henriette couldn’t go to the festival because she was ill.

  I could understand very little of their magpie chatter, but it was aproud moment. Alone, unaided, a stranger in a strange land, I had gainedthe attention of children while speaking in a foreign tongue. Oh, if Ihad only left the door open that Salemina might have witnessed thistriumph! But hearing steps in the distance, I said hastily,“_Asseyez-vous_, _mes enfants_, _tout-de-suite_!” My tone was soauthoritative that they obeyed instantly, and when the teacher entered itwas as calm as the millennium.

  We rambled through the village for another hour, dined at a quaint littleinn, gave a last look at the monument, and left for Geneva at seveno’clock in the pleasant September twilight. Arriving a trifle after ten,somewhat weary in body and slightly anxious in mind, I followed Saleminainto the tiny cake-shop across the street from the station. She returnedthe tumbler, and the man, who seemed to consider it an unexpectedcourtesy, thanked us volubly. I held out my hand and reminded himtimidly of the one franc fifty centimes.

  He inquired what I meant. I explained. He laughed scornfully. Iremonstrated. He asked me if I thought him an imbecile. I answered no,and wished that I knew the French for several other terms nearer thetruth, but equally offensive. Then we retired, having done our part, asgood Americans, to swell the French revenues, and that was the end of ourday in Pestalozzi-town; not the end, however, of the lemonade glassepisode, which was always a favourite story in Salemina’s repertory.