Again the doctor regarded Martin thoughtfully. It was as though he wondered whether this man’s agitated mind could view the spectacle which was soon to be presented. And Martin, waiting quietly, understood and respected this professional skepticism. At last, the physician spoke.
“Before you go in, Martin, remember that you are looking at the demanding, expansive form of paresis. Be careful!”
As Martin entered the bedroom he saw a disorientated face—a deflective rapport of Roberts with his environment—a clouding of consciousness. And as he went closer he knew that Roberts had no comprehension of detail or of situation. Martin felt completely helpless. It seemed to him that the translucent, attenuated skeleton of the adviser had wrapped its arms around him, instead of the disease. The sick man’s lips, dry and split, opened and closed in an effort to speak. The guttural tones reached Martin’s ears as though from a great distance—the words moving gently, like a broad leaf without wind.
“Martin! Martin!” Roberts’ expression became clear and defined. The immobile muscles of his face relaxed. “Martin!” he repeated. “Are you there?”
In the room was a terrible pressure.
Again he called—“Martin! Martin! Are you there?”
“Yes, Roberts, I’m here.”
The pitiful, decayed mask upon the pillow broke like a free tide. It spilled in diluted, semi-conscious tears against the linen. Roberts tried to shake the covers; but his hands stood out perpendicularly from the sides of his waist. They remained there, insensitive, incoherent, until Martin took them gently and laid them on the sheet.
Again, momentary consciousness lighted Roberts’ face. Its brightness and shrewd study shocked Martin more than any act of tension could have done.