She asked him abruptly: “Do you find that I have a German accent? It is seven years and more since I have spoken with any one of my own tongue, and I am curious to know.”
“It is a colour rather than an accent—that is to say—I always express myself very badly—as if you had dyed your native American with brown and crimson, and at the same time rounded off the thin edges. But I should not take you for a German. Is that what you wish?”
“Not in the least.”
“But Princess Nachmeister intimated that Munich was the passion of your life, or something of that sort.”
“Well, it is one of them, certainly; and for a while I was so grateful to Germany, so enchanted with my new life, that I deliberately tried to make myself over into a German, put myself into the rôle, as one does on the stage. I succeeded for a time, but all that is past. Once an American always an American, I fancy. And the longer I live in Europe the more American I become. Don’t ask me to define this. It is merely an instinct—perhaps a jealousy of birthright. I may never return to the United States. I know nothing of her affairs. But—well, my essence was compounded in that great country. She could put Germany into her pocket and not hear it rattle. It may be that—the physical vastness of the country—that holds me. I am only thinking out loud—I have never attempted to analyze why I finally admitted that Europe could inspire me with everything but a new patriotism, but I have a fancy that it is only snobs that become thoroughly Europeanized. Titles are a form of intoxication to republicans as well as to the bourgeoisie of monarchical countries. But after all, they work less harm than absinthe and cognac, so why be too severe? If one must have human weaknesses, let us be content merely with making fools of ourselves and save our livers and our nerves.”
Ordham laughed. “I was sure you were a monster of charity! But I hardly understand your loyalty to the United States. If your blood is Hungarian, what matters your birthplace? No Englishman feels a sentiment for the American flag because he happens to have been born under it.”
“Who told you I was of Hungarian parentage?”
“Everybody.”
“My mother was a Hungarian—emigrant. I have caused that story to be circulated about Munich, for I was tired of their nonsense. If you have any curiosity on the subject—I have not the vaguest idea who my father was. My mother, I have reason to believe, was of aristocratic blood on her father’s side, but she was a natural child, of course, and a vagrant.”
“Are you trying to disenchant me?” Ordham felt a little angry; he was, in truth, too much of a Briton and a born diplomatist to relish such plain speech.