It was the afternoon of the next day. Herr and Frau von Reinert had arrived somewhat earlier than they were expected, and were received by Hermann, who would not allow his grandmother's midday rest to be disturbed.
Directly after the first greetings were over, Antonie had retired to her room to lay aside her travelling dress, and her husband was now with Count Arnau in a small ante-room, close to the Gartensaal.
The friends had not seen each other for five years, in fact, since Eugen's marriage, and these five years had not left so little trace upon him as upon Hermann.
He would still always pass for a handsome and interesting man; but his expression, as well as his voice, were much altered. Weariness, languor, satiation, were all written there only too plainly. The features, once glowing with life, were weak and vigourless; the eyes, formerly so enthusiastic, languid; the whole being of the man scarcely three-and-thirty, had a touch of half-bitter, half-painful, deep, inward discontent. And this was betrayed in his tone, as, after the first indifferent questions and enquiries, he said--
"In spite of your laconic letters, I have heard enough of you from a distance. You have become a celebrity, and if report be true, will shortly take a high office in State affairs!"
"Is that the report? Well, no one ever expected or took it for granted that I should become a celebrity!"
Eugen understood the reproach.
"But it was expected of me, you mean? Yes, I did promise you, in those days, to begin a greater work. I have made plans and sketches enough; but--our life is so disturbing, so full of changes--hitherto I have always wanted leisure and quiet to carry them out."
"And the necessary desire to work."
"Well, if you like, the desire too. The dreams of one's youth, with which one surrounds everything, come to an end at last. In reality, there is not much in art, or in happiness, or, indeed, in life altogether!"