WARSAW, 25 January.

I am often bored at balls. As a _homo sapiens_ and an _éligible
parti_, I abhor them; as an artist, that is, artist without portfolio,
I now and then like them. What a splendid sight, for instance, that
broad staircase well lit up, where, amid a profusion of flowers the
women ascend to the ball-room. They all appear tall, and when not seen
from below (because the training robes destroy the illusion) they
remind one of the angels on Jacob's ladder. I like the motion, the
light, the flowers, and the gauzy material which enwraps the young
girls as in a soft mist; and then those shoulders, necks, and arms
which released from the warm cloaks seem at once to grow firm and
crisp as marble. My sense of smell, too, is gratified, for I delight
in good perfumes.

The picnic was a great success. To give Staszewski his due, he knows
how to arrange these things. I arrived together with my aunt, but lost
sight of her in the entrance hall, for Staszewski himself came down to
lead her upstairs. The dear old lady had on her ermine cloak she uses
on great occasions, and which her friends call her robe of state. When
I entered the ballroom I remained near the door and looked around.
What a strange sensation when, after a long interval, one comes back
to once familiar scenes. I feel I am a part of them, and yet I look at
them and criticise them as if I were a stranger. Especially the women
attracted my attention,--I must admit, fastidious as I am, that our
society is very choice. I saw pretty faces and plain faces, but all
stamped with the same well-bred refinement. The necks and shoulders,
in spite of the softly rounded contours, simply reminded me of Sevres
china. There is a restful elegance, something daintily finished, in