



Produced by Eve Sobol





HOWARDS END

By E. M. Forster




CHAPTER I.


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- 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