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."