"I do not know, Johannes. You must not hope for a criticism from me. I think the idea very sympathetic, and the form seems to me also quite poetic. But whether or not it is good poetry, you must ask of Mijnheer van Lieverlee. He is a poet."
"Is Mijnheer van Lieverlee coming soon?"
"Yes; I expect him shortly."
One fine day Van Lieverlee put in an appearance. With him arrived a host of merrily creaking, yellow trunks, smelling delightfully like russia leather—ditto high-hat box, and a brisk, smooth-shaven, traveling-servant.
Van Lieverlee wore in his button-hole a dark-red rose, and pointed pale-green carnation leaves.
He was very much at his ease—contented and gay—and when he saw Johannes he did not appear to have a very clear remembrance of him.
That evening Johannes read to him the poem. Van Lieverlee listened, with an absent-minded expression of face, while he drummed on the arm of the low, easy-chair in which he lay indolently outstretched. It looked very much as if the verses bored him.
When it was over, and Johannes was waiting in painful suspense, he shook his head emphatically.
"All rhetoric, my worthy friend—mere bombast! 'Oh! Alas!' and 'Ah!' All those are impotent cryings which show that the business is beyond you. If you had full control of expression, you would not utter such cries—you would form, shape, knead, create, model—model! Plasticity, Johannes! That is the thing—vision, color, imagery! I see nothing in that poem. I want something to see and taste. Just think of that sonnet of mine! Every line full of form, of imagery, of real, actual things! With you, there is nothing but vague terms—weak swaggering—all about the spirit of your Father, and such things—none of them to be seen. And, to produce effect, you call upon the other words: 'Ah!' and 'Alas!' and 'Oh!' as if that helped, at all. Any cad could do that if he fell into the water. That is not poetry."
Johannes was completely routed. And although his hostess tried to console him with assurances that if he did his best things would go better with him by and by, when he was a little older, it was of no avail. Johannes already knew that it was quite in vain for him to attempt his best, so long as the inspiration he so much needed was withheld.