When last I saw him, his long and thick white hair had reached to the
middle of his back, and his long untrimmed beard flowed down to his
girdle, and was the colour of hemp. His eyes were as sharp as those of
any young man, and he did his reading and writing without an eye-glass.
Even his grafting he did without an artificial help to his vision. I
remembered well the old custom for guests arriving at his house: coach
and servants had to be left at the inn, and dinner had to be ordered
there. Whoever came to visit the lord of the château, quite a
magnificent old-fashioned country seat, had to enter through a narrow
garden-gate, just wide enough to admit a single person. The great gate
was never opened, no vehicle of any kind was admitted to pass through
it, and a thick growth of horse-sorrel, both without and within the
great oaken wings, bore witness to the fact. There was a turnkey at the
little gate, and an old man--the only servant my uncle ever kept, who
served for porter, gardener, and all other purposes--opened the door.

There was yet one tender spot in my uncle's heart, one sprinkle of
poetry in his nature. He adored flowers, especially roses, and he did
not even grudge money to secure rare specimens. His flower-garden was a
real fairy bower, and the old man, with the flowing snow-white hair and
beard, pruning and grafting continually, resembled some sorcerer who,
with a single touch of his withered hands, could create or destroy all
the beauty around him.

I found him there among his roses when I came. He recognised me at
once, although the last ten years had considerably changed my
appearance. He was looking just the same as he did ten years ago; not
altered in the least. He was as dry, as wrinkled, and as white as when I
had last seen him, and his eyes appeared by no means less sharp than at
the time I speak of.