n curious to discover the connection of affairs. As you
acknowledge that your paintings are a specialty, how do you account for
this Russian patron's fancy for getting a whole brood of zaunkoenigs?"

"I asked the baron that question directly afterwards; for between
ourselves, the prince didn't seem to me exactly in his right mind, and
I thought it wrong to profit by a monomania. I know very well that I'm
only a mediocre artist, many of my works I can't endure myself. But the
baron quieted my scruples. My salary was no more to the prince than the
bottle of wine which I certainly should not grudge myself on a holiday,
is to me. Besides, he had a very shrewd head and was interested in my
artistic individuality, as he called it. Well, a man's wishes are his
own private affair. I'm now a Russian court painter, and the first
quarter's salary has been paid in advance, but there's nothing said
about an order and the sketch of my lagune, which I have sent and would
like to finish, has not been returned to me: 'it will do very well,'
was the answer. His Highness is still reflecting what he will order
first."

"I congratulate you," said Mohr dryly. "If your opinion that you're
only a mediocre artist were correct, it would at least be an _aurea
mediocritas_, a golden mean, with which one might well be satisfied."

"My dear sir," replied Herr Koenig good naturedly, without showing the
slightest irritation, "all things must serve to benefit those who love
God. I submitted to my mediocrity, even when no Russian prince gilded
it for me. If all creatures were of the same size, all men, plants and
animals the tropical giants now to be found in some regions, what would
become of the bright, cheerful diversity in the world? Even to belong
to it, I consider so great a happiness that I think those artists very
unfortunate who wish themselves out of it because they have attained
only average success or even fallen below mediocrity."

Mohr cast a keen side glance at him. Were these words, which struck his
sensitive spot, intentionally aimed at him? Had Edwin told the little
gentleman anything about his symphony or comedy, and was this lecture
on contentment intended to put a damper on his fruitless zeal? But the
artist's bright innocent expression contradicted such a suspicion, and
made it impossible for the other to utter the sharp answer that was
already hovering on his tongue. Besides, while engaged in this
conversation they had reached