life, but the art—Utamaro's art, the chronicle or history of the idealised harem or divan. How charming to talk with Utamaro on love and beauty in the grey soft atmosphere particularly fitting to receive him in, or to be received by him in. I would surely venture to say to him on such a rare occasion: "You had no academy or any hall of mediocrity in your own days to send your pictures to; that was fortunate, as you appealed directly to the people eventually more artistic and always just. I know that you too were once imprisoned under the accusation of obscenity; there was the criticism also in your day which saw the moral and the lesson, but not the beauty and the picture. When you say how sorry you were to part with your picture when it was done, I fully understand your artistic heart, because the picture was too much of yourself; perhaps you confessed your own love and passion too nakedly. I know that you must have been feeling uneasy or even afraid to be observed or criticised too closely."
As a certain critic remarked, the real beauty flies away like an angel whenever an intellect rushes in and begins to speak itself; the intellect, if it has anything to do, certainly likes to show up itself too much, with no consideration for the general harmony that would soon be wounded by it. Utamaro's art, let me dare say, is as I once wrote:
