already suspected, as I said before, that he was growing to deny his own art; now I should like to understand by that final special message to me that he wished to wholly deny all the human art of the world against great Nature before his death. When he grew weaker and weaker, I think that he found it more easy to dream of Nature; whether conscious or unconscious, he must have been in the most happy state, at least for his last days, as he was going to join himself with her. I never saw such a dead face so calm, so sorrowless, like Hara's; it reminded me of a certain Greek mask which I saw somewhere; indeed, he had a Greek soul in the true meaning.
We six or seven friends of his kept a tsuya, or wake, before his coffin, as is the custom, on the night of the 29th; the night rapidly advanced when the reminiscences of this passed great artist were told to keep us from falling asleep. One man was speaking of the story of Hara's friendship with Danjuro Ichikawa, the great tragedian of the old kabuki school of the modern Japanese stage. Once he played the réle of Benkei in "Adaka ga Seki," which he wished Hara to draw; it was a most unusual treat on the actor's part to give the artist one whole box at the Kabuki Theatre during fifteen days only for that purpose, where he appeared every day not to draw, but to look at the acting. But Hara very quickly sketched him one
