One may as well begin with Helen's letters to her sister.
"Howards End,
"Tuesday.
"Dearest Meg,
"It isn't going to be what we expected. It is old and little, and
altogether delightful--red brick. We can scarcely pack in as it
is, and the dear knows what will happen when Paul (younger son)
arrives to-morrow. From hall you go right or left into
dining-room or drawing-room. Hall itself is practically a room.
You open another door in it, and there are the stairs going up in
a sort of tunnel to the first-floor. Three bed-rooms in a row
there, and three attics in a row above. That isn't all the house
really, but it's all that one notices--nine windows as you look
up from the front garden.
"Then there's a very big wych-elm--to the left as you look
up--leaning a little over the house, and standing on the boundary
between the garden and meadow. I quite love that tree already.
Also ordinary elms, oaks--no nastier than ordinary oaks--
pear-trees, apple-trees, and a vine. No silver birches, though.
However, I must get on to my host and hostess. I only wanted to
show that it isn't the least what we expected. Why did we settle
that their house would be all gables and wiggles, and their
garden all gamboge-coloured paths? I believe simply because we
associate them with expensive hotels--Mrs. Wilcox trailing in
beautiful dresses down long corridors, Mr. Wilcox bullying
porters, etc. We females are that unjust.
"I shall be back Saturday; will let you know train later. They
are as angry as I am that you did not come too; really Tibby is
too tiresome, he starts a new mortal disease every month. How
could he have got hay fever in London? and even if he could, it
seems hard that you should give up a visit to hear a schoolboy
sneeze. Tell him that Charles Wilcox (the son who is here) has
hay fever too, but he's brave, and gets quite cross when we
inquire after it. Men like the Wilcoxes would do Tibby a power of
good. But you won't agree, and I'd better change the subject.
"This long letter is because I'm writing before breakfast. Oh,
the beautiful vine leaves! The house is covered with a vine. I
looked out earlier, and Mrs. Wilcox was already in the garden.
She evidently loves it. No wonder she sometimes looks tired. She
was watching the large red poppies come out. Then she walked off
the lawn to the meadow, whose corner to the right I can just see.
Trail, trail, went her long dress over the sopping grass, and she
came back with her hands full of the hay that was cut yesterday--
I suppose for rabbits or something, as she kept on smelling it.
The air here is delicious. Later on I heard the noise of croquet
balls, and looked out again, and it was Charles Wilcox
practising; they are keen on all games. Presently he started
sneezing and had to stop. Then I hear more clicketing, and it
is Mr. Wilcox practising, and then, 'a-tissue, a-tissue': he
has to stop too. Then Evie comes out, and does some calisthenic
exercises on a machine that is tacked on to a green-gage-tree--
they put everything to use--and then she says 'a-tissue,' and in
she goes. And finally Mrs. Wilcox reappears, trail, trail, still
smelling hay and looking at the flowers. I inflict all this on
you because once you said that life is sometimes life and
sometimes only a drama, and one must learn to distinguish
tother from which, and up to now I have always put that down as
'Meg's clever nonsense.' But this morning, it really does seem
not life but a play, and it did amuse me enormously to watch the
W's. Now Mrs. Wilcox has come in.
"I am going to wear [omission]. Last night Mrs. Wilcox wore an
[omission], and Evie [omission]. So it isn't exactly a
go-as-you-please place, and if you shut your eyes it still seems
the wiggly hotel that we expected. Not if you open them. The
dog-roses are too sweet. There is a great hedge of them over the
lawn--magnificently tall, so that they fall down in garlands, and
nice and thin at the bottom, so that you can see ducks through it
and a cow. These belong to the farm, which is the only house near
us. There goes the breakfast gong. Much love. Modified love to
Tibby. Love to Aunt Juley; how good of her to come and keep you
company, but what a bore. Burn this. Will write again Thursday.
"HELEN."
Howards End
Friday
"Dearest Meg,
"I am having a glorious time. I like them all. Mrs. Wilcox, if
quieter than in Germany, is sweeter than ever, and I never saw
anything like her steady unselfishness, and the best of it is
that the others do not take advantage of her. They are the very
happiest, jolliest family that you can imagine. I do really feel
that we are making friends. The fun of it is that they think me a
noodle, and say so--at least, Mr. Wilcox does--and when that
happens, and one doesn't mind, it's a pretty sure test, isn't
it? He says the most horrid things about woman's suffrage so
nicely, and when I said I believed in equality he just folded his
arms and gave me such a setting down as I've never had. Meg,
shall we ever learn to talk less? I never felt so ashamed of
myself in my life. I couldn't point to a time when men had been
equal, nor even to a time when the wish to be equal had made them
happier in other ways. I couldn't say a word. I had just picked
up the notion that equality is good from some book--probably from
poetry, or you. Anyhow, it's been knocked into pieces, and, like
all people who are really strong, Mr. Wilcox did it without
hurting me. On the other hand, I laugh at them for catching hay
fever. We live like fighting-cocks, and Charles takes us out
every day in the motor--a tomb with trees in it, a hermit's
house, a wonderful road that was made by the Kings of Mercia--
tennis--a cricket match--bridge and at night we squeeze up in
this lovely house. The whole clan's here now--it's like a rabbit
warren. Evie is a dear. They want me to stop over Sunday--I
suppose it won't matter if I do. Marvellous weather and the views
marvellous--views westward to the high ground. Thank you for your
letter. Burn this.
"Your affectionate
"HELEN."
"Howards End,
"Sunday.
"Dearest, dearest Meg,--I do not know what you will say: Paul and
I are in love--the younger son who only came here Wednesday."
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