Robert Weaver appeared suddenly one night about seven o’clock as Eugene was sitting in the lobby at the Leopold: he had not seen Robert since their arrest. His visit to the hotel was the result of a sudden impulse on Robert’s part: immediately, without greeting or any preliminary whatever, he began to ask all sorts of questions about the Leopold — How long had Eugene been there? Did he have a good room and how big was it? How well did he like living at the hotel? Then insisted that Eugene show him his room. Eugene got his key at the desk and took him up: at the sight of the small room with its piles of books and stacks of student themes Robert burst out laughing. Then he began to ask all manner of questions in a serious and earnest tone — Where was the bathroom? — Eugene showed him — Did they give him plenty of towels? — Eugene told him — How much did he pay? — Eugene said the rent was twelve dollars a week.
He received these answers with an air of astounded surprise, his manner became even more earnest and excited, he began to say, “You don’t mean it!” “Well, I’ll be damned!” “Well, what do you know about that?”— as if the most astonishing revelations were being made to him. Eugene looked at him with misgiving, because he was obviously caught in the full surge of one of his impulses and, sure enough, all at once he said with an air of complete decision: “Damned if I don’t do it! It’s the very place I’ve been looking for all along! Why, look at all you get for the money! Damnedest bargain I ever heard of! I’ve just been throwing my money away up there!”— he had been living at the Yale Club —“Damned if I don’t get me a room and move in right away!”
This sudden prospect of having Robert as a neighbour did not attract the other youth: he was working very hard with his classes and trying to complete a play he had begun to write, and he had no intention of becoming the companion or nurse of Robert’s drunkenness or the confessor of his fevered despair and unrest: he told him he would not like the Leopold, that the people were old and stodgy, and the rules of propriety very strict. Further, he made the mistake of emphasizing the difficulty of getting a room there, although there really was no difficulty: he told him the place was a quiet family hotel, that the management wanted regular tenants of quiet habits who intended to live there permanently, that the preference was given to middle-aged married couples, and that there were no vacancies, anyway — that a long list of applicants were waiting to get in. All this merely whetted Robert’s eagerness: he now said that he fulfilled all the requirements save marriage, and that this deficiency would soon be remedied: he said he had completely reformed his old habits of life, and that a quieter, steadier, more sober and industrious man did not exist: he said he was determined to live there, and he demanded that Eugene take him to the manager and plead for him without delay.
When Eugene saw that he was really determined, he agreed: they went downstairs to see the manager. He came out of his office with the habitual defensive look of caution and suspicion on his sour meagre face, and listened with his usual unwilling and disparaging air, not facing them or directly looking at them, but with his small parsley face averted and his eyes turned downward, while Eugene praised Robert up to the skies, said he had known him all his life, that he was the scion of an ancient and distinguished family in the South, a brilliant young attorney in a New York firm, and one of the steadiest and most proper youths that ever lived. Robert also put in from time to time with his deep voice and impressive manners, and at length Mr. Gibbs began to shake his head dubiously, to say he didn’t know, to tell how difficult it was to get admitted to the Leopold — until Eugene almost laughed in his face — but that in a case like this, because it was Eugene and he knew if he recommended a man he must be all right, and so on — he would see what he could do: he began to thumb over the pages of a meaningless ledger, peering at it and squinting along his parched finger as it moved across the page and chattering and mumbling like a monkey: at length he straightened with an air of decision, took four or five keys from their boxes and gave them to the negro captain with instructions “to show this gentleman these rooms.” They all got into the elevator and went upstairs again with Robert and the negro: they looked at several rooms and at length, after great indecision, appeals for advice and guidance, and innumerable questions, Robert selected a room in the old annexe — a selection for which the other youth was grateful, since his own room was in the new one.
Robert moved in promptly the next day: they had dinner together; he was in a state of jubilant elation. Then no more was seen or heard of him for a week; when Eugene did get news of him it was neither welcome nor reassuring. The phone in his room rang one morning as he was dressing: a voice from the office asked him curtly to see Mr. Gibbs when he came down. He went downstairs with a sense of ominous misgiving: Mr. Gibbs came toward him with a puckered and protesting face as if he had just tasted something sour and unexpected; he began to speak at once in a tone of shocked and astounded indignation: “In heaven’s name!” he rasped; “who is this man Weaver that you brought here? What kind of man is here? YOU brought him here,” he said accusingly. “YOU recommended him. We thought he was all right. We took YOUR word for it? What’s wrong with the man? Is he crazy? Is he out of his head completely?”— his face was soured and wrinkled like a persimmon, his small pinched figure trembled with excitement and indignation, he looked at the boy with an expression of horrified reproof — he was a comical sight, but the boy was in no temper at the moment to appreciate the humour of his appearance.
“What is it, Mr. Gibbs? What’s the matter? What has he done?”
“Why,” he said, trembling with anger at the very thought of it, “he tried to burn us all up last night. He came in here at three o’clock in the morning, raving and carrying on like a crazy man. Then he went upstairs and set his room on fire.”
“On fire!”
“Why, yes!” said Gibbs. “We had to call the fire brigade to put it out. Why, it’s a wonder any of us are left alive — all of these people sleeping in the hotel and this crazy man yelling and screaming at five o’clock this morning that the place is on fire! Why, we can’t have anything like that in this hotel,” he said with the air of one who describes the desecration of a temple. “We can’t have a man like that here. Why, he’ll drive the other people out, we’ll lose all our guests: people aren’t going to stay in a place with a crazy man. There’s no telling what a man like that is liable to do. Now!” he said with an air of abrupt and pugnacious decision, “he’s got to get out: I won’t have him here! I’m not going to have a man like that in my hotel a moment longer”— his small jaw hardened meanly, his face shrank, and his eyes narrowed, as he turned away, “and someone’s got to pay for all the damage that was done! Now, I don’t care who pays it”— his face was averted —“but it’s not going to be us! Now you can tell him,” he snapped curtly, and he left.
Eugene went upstairs at once to Robert’s room in a state of choking anger and resentment: he felt that Robert had tricked him and taken advantage of him, that he was being held accountable for Robert’s misbehaviour, and that now his own standing in the hotel had been jeopardized and he would be forced to leave this delightful and charming establishment at which he had cursed and mocked so bitterly many times, but which now, in his resentful spirit, took on a peaceful and home-like glamour it had never had before. He walked into Robert’s room without knocking: the room was a wreck, a negro maid was mournfully and sullenly gathering up from the floor the charred and blackened remnants of a pile of bed-linen and blankets; the mirror had been smashed by a drinking-glass which Robert had hurled at it, he said, when he saw his image reflected in it, the remnants of a chair lay on the floor, the heavy glass plate upon a writing table had been broken, there was a large brownish stain upon one of the walls where he had hurled a whisky bottle, and one end of his bed lay tilted on the floor where he had stamped or kicked the slats and boards to splinters. Robert was standing in the midst of all the ruin he had made, with a nervous and rueful expression on his face: when his friend came in he looked at him uneasily and laughed in a feeble and foolish manner, without conviction.
“Now, damn it, don’t stand there laughing about it, Robert,” the other said. “You may think it’s fu............