range and power—H. L. Mencken—The best woman writer—May Sinclair—The next best—Virginia Woolf—The next best—Willa Cather.
Wednesday Night—November 26, 1924: At midnight eating at Chez Marianne—First day I have not worked for two weeks but am going home to work after eating. Up at 12.30 today after last night felt sick—walked to bank—found no mail—wrote and sent letters to Mama and to University. Talked to young fellow in bank about Switzerland—had lunch at Taverne Royale—Took taxi to Place des Vosges—Went to Victor Hugo Museum—Walked around Square—then back to Carnavalet—at National Archives—The narrow streets, the narrow sidewalks, the great buses, taxis, autos, bicycles, trucks and the catty people jabbering and squalling got me in a stew—Looked over distressing tons of books at a bookshop, and went on feeling crushed—Bought two books—Then got taxi Rue du Temple and so home through the jam of Rue de Rivoli—Women outside pawing cheap articles at Samaritaine. Then home to hotel where bathed went out to Deux Magots two aperitifs then to Apollo Revue!—Not as bad as some—one or two good songs—but of course, on whole quite stupid.
Thursday—November 27, 1924: At one, after working till five this morning. Dining at Drouant’s—very rich, red restaurant filled with business men talking of les Anglais, les Américains, et cinq cent mille francs—at Drouant’s—a cold consommé, a rumpsteak grille—avec des pommes soufflées—a fond d’artichaut Mornay (a cheese and cream dressing and the ends of artichokes—delicious) a coffee and a half bottle of Nuit St. Georges couvert 4 fr. total 44 fr.
At one table three Frenchmen of 50 or more—one of 40—one with black beard—coal-black, neatly trimmed, naked around jaws—another a heavy distinguished man—grey beard pompadoured—grey close-cropped moustache—high-coloured—nervous grey eyes shot with red—hands white, taut and tapping constantly, while the face smiles—talks politely—another a red gnarled satanic face—fierce with rich foods and wines—smooth-shaven—and the youngest—black hair, a black moustache—a quiet smiling, well-fleshed type. He had rich colour—red shot with richness, the satanic yet not unpleasant cast of face—the cropped brown moustache and such pompadoured brownish hair—a Gallic type.
LATER: Seated at the café in front of Magasin du Louvre and Palais Royal—
