...of last respects

Nevertheless, whatever posterity might say, the fact was that Tabor had no friends, and that I had not been bidden to his doomsday doorway as if I were one. I had come on my own account to pay my last respects to what was left of the composer of history's hymnal, the singer of history's lays. What was left to respect proved to be his accusatory eyes. Which roved when I did.
I had actually come to say goodbye in a sincere and simple way, if I could find one. But I could not wish good luck or bid Godspeed - hey, I hope you get to heaven, I think you've got a chance, I really do - and I could not utter the cliches which embarrassment sent to my lips; in fact, I could not say anything to someone unable or forbidden to reply, who could only tremble as if in fear, cower under the covers in shame of his situation, with his eyes glowing like an animal caught in a cave, alone, the last of his species, no longer enraged and ready to retaliate, no longer even brave.
Could I hold out my hand and hope to sync its shaking with his? could I break off a smile like a crust of beggar's bread? speak my mind? die quickly, my friend, let's get to death without the dance. There was no way to say: you leave one pupil, Professor, among all those who flocked (yes, like sheep) to hear you, who gave you their one minute of admiration at the end of every holy hour; from them you earned, possibly gained, certainly obtained a single disciple; and you will die now - we both hope, soon - before your solitary follower can disallow you, before he can go back on your word, and besmirch your reputation with the tarnish which will surely darken his own. There is some strange justice in all this. The blot upon his honour, furthermore, will be your gift to him: a set of disturbingly honest and repulsively accurate ideas. For these, he comes to your deathbed now to thank you - for simultaneously giving value to, and ruining, his life.

[The Tunnel, Gass, W. H.]