“He is young, handsome, rich, intelligent; she would be a fool if she did not fall in love with him at once.”

To-morrow I am to go to a picnic the gentlemen are giving for the ladies.  They say it is going to be a grand entertainment.

WARSAW, 25 January.

I am often bored at balls.  As a homo sapiens and an eligible 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 all of them.  Truly, they do not imitate Europe,—­they are Europe.

I remained there about a quarter of an hour indolently musing which of all these dainty damsels my aunt had chosen for me, when Sniatynski and his wife came up.  I had seen him only a few months ago at Rome, and had known her, too, for some time.  I like her very much; she has a sweet face and belongs to those exceptional Poles that do not absorb their husband’s whole life, but surrender their own.  Presently a young girl slipped in between us, and while greeting Pani Sniatynska, put out a small hand encased in a white kid glove and said:—­

“Don’t you know me, Leon?”

I felt slightly perplexed at this question, for indeed I did not know who it was that greeted me thus familiarly; but not wishing to seem rude, I smiled and pressed the little hand, saying, “Of course I do.”  I must have looked a little foolish because, presently Pani Sniatynska burst out laughing and said, “But he does not recognize you; it is Aniela P.”