“Who is this fellow?” Albert asked in a modulated voice. “Has he no name at all?” “He said he was a genius and was sure you’d appreciate him—and he looks like a genius.” “You have probably misunderstood him,” laughed Albert. “He must have said he wanted to see the genius. Alright, let him come in.” The landlady shrugged her shoulders and closed the door. He was about to throw himself back on his bed when she reappeared, followed by the stranger. “Look at the damn thing!” the intruder burst out, without a word of introduction. “No publisher would have it. I showed it to the editor of the “_Gesellschafter_” but he only shook his head and said ‘Show it to Albert Zorn.’ So here it is!” With that he flung a packet of papers on the bed. Albert reached for the manuscript, then glanced at his visitor. “So your name is Krebsfleisch?” “Johann Friedrich Krebsfleisch” the stranger corrected him, with a sullen expression on his high cheekbones and short, receding chin. His brow was like a dome and his eyelids were heavy, with bovine eyes protruding. “Before long everybody in the land—princes and paupers—will know who Johann Friedrich Krebsfleisch is!” he added. “The world is as yet too stupid to recognize my genius. I was told you might understand me—But you can’t be a poet and have that fine fur coat!” Krebsfleisch suddenly checked himself, his bulging eyes turned in the direction of an open clothes-closet, where Zorn’s clothes were hanging. He crossed the room and patted the fur as if it were a purring cat. Albert’s mouth tightened with a humorous smile on his lips. There was a mischievous twinkle in his narrowed eyes. He could not decide whether his visitor was an escaped lunatic or had not recovered from a night’s drinking. He wore a short, tattered coat, baggy patched trousers, and his hairy breast was seen through his unbuttoned shirt. His headgear was a cross between an old-fashioned high silk hat and the present day derby. “Why don’t you read it?” he presently accosted Albert. “Some day you’d be glad to tell your friends that the great poet Johann Friedrich Krebsfleisch had given you the chance of reading his great epic in manuscript.” Then he added, as if soliloquising, “Every genius is a John the Baptist crying in the wilderness. Years later people wake up and try to catch the echo.” Albert undid the package and glanced at the title page. “Since Schiller died no one has produced a tragedy worthy of the name. At last you have one before you,” Krebsfleisch struck in. “Have you published anything?” “The idiots can’t see my genius—yet. And the finest quality of my genius is hunger. Yes, I am a genius by the grace of god. No one has ever known hunger in all its stages as I have.” He moved his jaws, his eyes wandering around the room. A knock at the door and a maid entered with a tray of steaming coffee and several rolls and butter. Krebsfleisch stared at the food avidly.