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 altogetherdelightful—red brick. We can scarcely pack in as it is, and the dear knows whatwill happen when Paul (younger son) arrives tomorrow. From hall you go right orleft into dining-room or drawing-room. Hall itself is practically a room. Youopen another door in it, and there are the stairs going up in a sort of tunnelto the first-floor. Three bedrooms in a row there, and three attics in a rowabove. That isn’t all the house really, but it’s all that one notices—ninewindows 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 littleover the house, and standing on the boundary between the garden and meadow. Iquite love that tree already. Also ordinary elms, oaks—no nastier than ordinaryoaks—pear-trees, apple-trees, and a vine. No silver birches, though. However, Imust get on to my host and hostess. I only wanted to show that it isn’t theleast what we expected. Why did we settle that their house would be all gablesand wiggles, and their garden all gamboge-coloured paths? I believe simplybecause we associate them with expensive hotels—Mrs. Wilcox trailing inbeautiful dresses down long corridors, Mr. Wilcox bullying porters, etc. Wefemales are that unjust.
I shall be back Saturday; will let you know train later. They are as angry as Iam that you did not come too; really Tibby is too tiresome, he starts a newmortal disease every month. How could he have got hay fever in London? and evenif he could, it seems hard that you should give up a visit to hear a schoolboysneeze. 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 theWilcoxes would do Tibby a power of good. But you won’t agree, and I’d betterchange the subject.
This long letter is because I’m writing before breakfast. Oh, the beautifulvine 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 shesometimes looks tired. She was watching the large red poppies come out. Thenshe walked off the lawn to the meadow, whose corner to the right I can justsee. Trail, trail, went her long dress over the sopping grass, and she cameback with her hands full of the hay that was cut yesterday—I suppose forrabbits 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 wasCharles Wilcox practising; they are keen on all games. Presently he startedsneezing and had to stop. Then I hear more clicketing, and it is Mr. Wilcoxpractising, and then, ‘a-tissue, a-tissue’: he has to stop too. Then Evie comesout, and does some calisthenic exercises on a machine that is tacked on to agreengage-tree—they put everything to use—and then she says ‘a-tissue,’ and inshe goes. And finally Mrs. Wilcox reappears, trail, trail, still smelling hayand looking at the flowers. I inflict all this on you because once you saidthat life is sometimes life and sometimes only a drama, and one must learn todistinguish t’other 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 aplay, and it did amuse me enormously to watch the W’s. Now Mrs. Wilcox has comein.
I am going to wear [omission]. Last night Mrs. Wilcox wore an [omission], andEvie [omission]. So it isn’t exactly a go-as-you-please place, and i