“No English spoken here, that is evident,” said Salemina ruefully; “but you have such a gift for languages you can take the command to-day and make the blunders and bear the jeers of the public. You must find out where the new Pestalozzi Monument is,—where the Château is,—where the schools are, and whether visitors are admitted,—whether there is a respectable hotel where we can get dinner,—whether we can get back to Geneva to-night, whether it’s a fast or a slow train, and what time it gets there,—whether the methods of Pestalozzi are still maintained,—whether they know anything about Froebel,—whether they know what a kindergarten is, and whether they have one in the village. Some of these questions will be quite difficult even for you.”
Well, the monument was not difficult to find, at all events. We accosted two or three small boys and demanded boldly of one of them, “Où est le monument de Pestalozzi, s’il vous plaît?”
He shrugged his shoulders like an American small boy and said vacantly, “Je ne sais pas.”
“Of course he does know,” said Salemina; “he means to be disagreeable; or else ‘monument’ isn’t monument.”
“Well,” I answered, “there is a monument in the distance, and there cannot be two in this village.”
Sure enough it was the very one we sought. It stands in a little open place quite “in the business heart of the city,”—as we should say in America, and is an exceedingly fine and impressive bit of sculpture. The group of three figures is in bronze and was done by M. Gruet of Paris.
The modelling is strong, the expression of Pestalozzi benign and sweet, and the trusting upturned faces of the children equally genuine and attractive.
One side of the pedestal bears the inscription:—
À
Pestalozzi
1746–1827
Monument érigé
par souscription populaire
MDCCCXC
On a second side these words are carved in the stone:—