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    Howards End
    Howards End
    Howards End
    Ebook434 pages4 hours

    Howards End

    By E. M. (Edward Morgan) Forster

    4/5

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateSep 12, 1954
    Howards End

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    • 4/5
      Published in 1910, but I'd never read it. I was out of books to read and I found it on my youngest daughter's shelf, leftover from her high school days. Parts made me laugh out loud. Forster definitely had a gift with the English language. And it came full circle, which always satisfies me in stories. I also liked that while it was published over 100 years ago and reflected the times (particularly attitudes toward women), there were scenes that could have happened today. For instance:"You shall see the connection if it kills you, Henry! You have had a mistress—I forgave you. My sister has had a lover—you drive her from the house. Do you see the connection? Stupid, hypocritical, cruel . . ." [spoken by Margaret]Later, Margaret thinks about her outburst, reflecting, "No message came from Henry; perhaps he expected her to apologize. Now that she had time to think over her own tragedy, she was unrepentant. She neither forgave him for his behaviour nor wished to forgive him. Her speech to him seemed perfect. She would not have altered a word. It had to be uttered once in a life, to adjust the lopsidedness of the world. It was spoken not only to her husband, but to thousands of men like him . . ." (italics mine) #metooThis is a classic I overlooked. If you've overlooked it also, check it out.
    • 2/5
      Nothing too remarkable.
    • 4/5
      This was a really deep book, full of insight and theories on the world, society and people as individuals. Its quite a wordy book, but it was surprisingly captivating and wasn't a chore to read or hard to get into. I found once I channelled into the voice of the writing it all flowed very well, and it all made sense. A lot of the concepts and ideas Forster had about property and class are still kind of relevant. I particularly liked the fact, especially given when it was written and the fact that Forster was man, that women aren't patronised to the scale I have come to expect from similar books (though it isn't totally free of don't-worry-your-pretty-little-head-isms). I loved that the book is based around a range of different female characters with different roles in society, with different ideas and approaches to life, women that are not ridiculed or pushed to the side. At the time it was written, women still hadn't been given the vote and weren't really seen as having much of a place in social debate or whatever, but Forster gives some of his female characters agreeable ideals and strong convictions. I was also really pleased with the way he approaches a part of the story which, for the time, was a very scandalous issue, without laying blame or demonising anyone by taking the mainstream point of view of the time. It was a wonderful book and I'll definitely be looking to read more of his work.
    • 4/5
      [Howard's End] seems a study of the various classes and mind sets of England, the rich and poor, the artistic and the businessman. It's not clear in the end whether they've come to any better understanding of each other.
    • 4/5
      Excellent portrait of British society.
    • 3/5
      I read this, initially confusing it with "A Room With a View", which I read ages ago; I was a third of the way through before I realized my mistake. While there were parts of this book I liked very much (Margaret's outrage that Henry sees no parallels between his behaviour and that of Helen, for example), by the end I was glad to say goodbye to a cast of characters who were either unlikeable or inconsistently portrayed. Margaret's willingness to compromise everything she had previously stood for, simply to marry Henry, was puzzling, and Helen's behaviour SPOILERSin sleeping with Leonard while his wife was presumably in the next room was so unlikely as to be unbelievable to me. The ending, with Henry being a shadow of his former self and agreeing to share a house with Helen and her baby was rather convenient; the idea that he and Helen would become fond of one another utterly impossible.Both Helen and Margaret muse at different times about how their affluence cushions them from having to make the compromises and hard choices most people live with on a daily basis, but seem to feel pretty good about that when push comes to shove. Morality is not really a focus of this book and (probably very bourgeois of me), I was appalled by most of the decisions the characters made. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth.
    • 5/5
      This novel is beautifully written and, for a book written before World War I, surprisingly relevant to today's political and social climate. The central conflict seems to be between Margaret's ideals and how these manifest in real life. She is intellectual, well-educated, and has a strong will, which makes it disappointing to see her make choices that seem counter to these aspects of herself. I felt so irritated with her for some of the mistakes I saw her making, but in the end, she seems to come to a place of compromise that is better for (nearly) everyone involved than what would have been available had she dug in her heels from the beginning. The novel seemed to be gearing up for a grand confrontation and dramatic decisions, and so at first this compromise ending was unsatisfying to me. But upon reflection, I decided that the ending is all the more realistic for the lack of fireworks. Gradually I saw that the decisions Margaret made that were so frustrating to me were frustrating because they're the kinds of decisions I think anyone makes who has ideals and also lives in the world. It's more satisfying to read about people bucking convention, throwing off everything they once valued and making a clean breast of it as a shiny, new person, but it's not realistic. We can make external changes, but we don't really become new people, or if we do, it's a slow metamorphosis, and one we can't govern ourselves, contrary to the promises of self-help books, talk shows, and websites selling fitness programs.Compromise doesn't give the dopamine release that I crave, and it doesn't feed the desire I still feel despite my constant efforts to the contrary to see punished people I think have done wrong, but it provides a much more loving and sustainable model for change than the dramatic ending. Only connect.Some quotes that spoke to me:p.25: "It is the vice of a vulgar mind to be thrilled by bigness, to think that a thousand square miles are a thousand times more wonderful than one square mile, and that a million square miles are almost the same as heaven."p. 52: "I'm tired of these rich people who pretend to be poor, and think it shows a nice mind to ignore the piles of money that keep their feet above the waves."p.91: "Actual life is full of false clues and signposts that lead nowhere. With infinite effort we nerve ourselves for a crisis that never comes. The most successful career must show a waste of strength that might have moved mountains, and the most unsuccessful is not that of the man who is taken unprepared, but of him who has prepared and is never taken...Life is indeed dangerous, but not in the way morality would have us believe. It is indeed unmanageable, but the essence of it is not a battle. It is unmanageable because it is a romance, and its essence is romantic beauty."p. 128: "The feudal ownership of land did bring dignity, whereas the modern ownership of movables is reducing us again to a nomadic horde. We are reverting to the civilization of luggage, and historians in the future will note how the middle classes accreted possessions without taking root in the earth, and may find in this the secret to their imaginative poverty."p.132: "I don't believe in suiting my conversation to my company. One can doubtless hit upon some medium of exchange that seems to do well enough, but it's no more like the real thing than money is like food. There's no nourishment in it."
    • 3/5
      The story as a whole is take-it or leave-it. Nothing special, groundbreaking, breathtaking, etc; no characters of particular interest or note. Whatever. What I enjoyed about this book was the philosophical discourse and how amusingly outdated - and yet somehow prescient - it was.
    • 4/5
      I can't decide if I like this book. I like the style of writing the language and descriptions I found poetic but the characters themselves I thought horrible for the most part. The Wilcox's are all stuffy, spoilt and snobby. Meg spouts feminist ideals but as a wife is a total doormat. Helen is a hysterical idiot. Tibby is a sort of caricature of a young man without any thought beyond himself.
      All of the prose makes the book readable but at the same time it is sometimes so wordy I find myself switching off and then having to reread and missing plot points.

      It is a book about a changing nation and changing society. The end of the height of the empire when to be English is to be the best and brightest but before the First World War which changed England's relationship with Europe and society as a whole. Each character seems to be looking for stability when everything is changing around them. Charles wants the security of money Henry wants a return to the comfort of marriage. Meg wants a home to feel secure in. Helen wants to find truth and justice and doesn't comprehend that no one else cares for either. I do wonder if Forster was totally sexist and really thought women were as they are portrayed, or if he was just writing the commonly held views of the time.
    • 4/5
      Howard's End seemed like it could have been written by Jane Austin. Social classes and mores clash in this story set in turn of the century England. Margaret and Helen Schlegel value culture and the arts; the Wilcox family are more interested in business and commerce; and the Basts are a lower class couple whom the Schlegel sisters want to help out. When Ruth passes away, the only Wilcox to truly appreciate Howard's End, she leaves her family estate to Margaret. Greedy and wanting to rent the estate for profit, the Wilcox family tell Margaret nothing about her inheritance. In time Margaret falls for Ruth's former husband and eventually moves into Howard's End, a fitting end since Margaret is simpatico with the history and beauty of the old family estate.
    • 4/5
      Story of two sisters, Margaret & Helen, with themes about money, class, learning, England
    • 4/5
      Margaret and Helen Schlegel are idealistic, artistic, and seem to exist in a world untouched by the realities of the increasingly modern world in which the Wilcoxes thrive. When the lives of the Schlegel sisters intersect with those of the Wilcox clan, it is a surprisingly long lasting connection that will ripple through their lives for years to come.A lovely novel that is as much about the encroachment of modern life as it is about the fascinating relationship between the Schlegel sisters. Written with gorgeous prose, Forster creates a beautiful world for the Schlegels to exist in within a bubble of money and ideals that is constantly buffeted by the realities in which the Wilcoxes reside. Fascinating for its depiction of Edwardian society in the years prior to WWI, this is a quiet but enthralling classic novel to experience.
    • 3/5
      It's one of those books I should give 4 stars to for writing quality but it's kind of a 2 in terms of how well it reverberated in my mind (which is to say it is Not For Me), so I'll split the difference and call it a 3. Forster and I do not see eye to eye and I didn't understand what he even really meant half the time. Just not my kind of thing.
    • 2/5
      If you identify with early 20th century upper class British, then you might like this book. Others will find it dated and irrelevant. I did. It might have been good in its time, but I read it 100 years after its time.
    • 1/5
      I know this is a classic and it's been on my list for a long, long time. But I just didn't like it at all. :(
    • 4/5
      Howards End is a wonderful adventure into the lives of Edwardian England. By the end of the novel, I not only wanted to be a Schlegel sister, I wanted to inhabit Howards End itself and make a wonderful, artsy, educational life for myself. The characters are so believable, and they seem to move throughout the story of their own accord. There were a few moments when I felt as though I could skip ahead through some long narrations, but other than that, I enjoyed the book and looked forward to every turn of the page! I would recommend this book to anyone with an imagination!
    • 4/5
      "Only connect..." The book's epigraph is a succinct way of stressing the importance of human relationships and connections, because they enrich life. Also (secondarily), they are nothing to shrink from.
    • 4/5
      Through much of the first half of this book, I thought the story was disjointed. I couldn't understand why certain characters were even part of the story. But, as the story progressed, I found myself drawn to the story. Wonderful characters and a strong narration by Nadia May.
    • 4/5
      Really well-written. Good characters, excellent storyline. And not anything simple to it. The relationship between Meg and Mr. Wilcox is complicated. The struggle of Leonard Bast to overcome ignorance and poverty. The misplaced idealism of Helen. So much depth to this novel.
    • 5/5
      Two sisters encounter another English family while on holidays in Germany and develop ties that carry on through the novel. Howards End is the name of the family's estate north of London based on the author's beloved childhood home, and it plays a symbolic role in the story that creeps up on you. There's a thematic parallel here with "Passage", the communication challenge in this case being between and across social strata within a single culture. Both novels propose bridges built from compassion, from assuming there are commonalities to be found versus doggedly insisting upon an "us" and "them" dichotomy. To achieve it we must lay ourselves emotionally open, sensitive to our own hearts first before we can presume to understand the hearts of others.I found the opening very engaging, didn't care for some plot turns in the middle but was deeply held by its ending. Events are interspersed with impressive psychological insight in the quieter passages. I wasn't always on point with following the symbolism and nuances of the activities, just as I wasn't entirely free of wanting something eventful to happen during the interludes, but then I was rewarded for reflection or patience respectively. This fault lies with me rather than the novel, and I think a second read would go much more smoothly. E.M. Forster is a classic "writer's writer" who knows how to turn a metaphor to his advantage or recall an earlier passage at precisely the correct time.
    • 4/5
      Dissolves into pointless melodrama at the end and the "fallen woman" Jacky stuff is kind of weird (what happens to her?) but the concert chapter (those descriptions of Beethoven's Fifth!) and the following scene at Wickham Place ensures that this book deserves its spot on 20th Century classics lists:

      "If only he could talk like this, he would have caught the world. Oh, to acquire culture! Oh, to pronounce foreign names correctly! Oh, to be well informed, discoursing at ease on every subject that a lady started! But it would take one years. With an hour at lunch and a few shattered hours in the evening, how was it possible to catch up with leisured women, who had been reading steadily from childhood? His brain might be full of names, he might have even heard of Monet and Debussy; the trouble was that he could not string them together into a sentence, he could not make them "tell," he could not quite forget about his stolen umbrella. Yes, the umbrella was the real trouble. Behind Monet and Debussy the umbrella persisted, with the steady beat of a drum. "I suppose my umbrella will be all right," he was thinking. "I don't really mind about it. I will think about music instead. I suppose my umbrella will be all right." Earlier in the afternoon he had worried about seats. Ought he to have paid as much as two shillings? Earlier still he had wondered, "Shall I try to do without a programme?" There had always been something to worry him ever since he could remember, always something that distracted him in the pursuit of beauty."

    • 4/5
      Nothing much happens in the first half of this E.F. Forster novel, set in Edwardian England. That is, there’s a lot of intellectually self-conscious conversation about art, culture and philosophy by two well-to-do sisters, Margaret and Helen Schlagel, and a bit where their path crosses with a considerably less well-to-do gent named Leonard Bast, a clerk in an insurance office who is trapped by poverty, class and an unfortunate marriage into a much more subscribed life, but who aspires to something more poetic. It’s when their lives become entangles with the lives of the nuveau-rich Wilcox family, the tenants of Howards End, that things start becoming more complicated. Literally, Howards End is a pretty country house, neither plain nor ostentatious but – as they say in the fairy tale – just right. Symbolically, it represents a simpler, more stately world in which people understand the importance of remaining connected to the land and family. Because this novel is, at its core, a story about an England in transition between two value systems: agrarian vs. modern. The characters, in one fashion or another, wrestle with the values and ethics of the “new world” in which they find themselves, trying to forge a balance between old values and modern principles.It’s not just poor Mr. Bast who aspires to something he can never achieve. Pretty much everyone in this book possesses the same fatal flaw. Helen nurses a socialist vision of a world in which the poor are provided equal access to education, wealth, and achievement. Mr. Wilcox, a successful “new money” aristocrat, wants to believe his England a “progressive” world in which efficiency and capitalism reign triumphant. Margaret wants the man she has fallen in love with to be worthy of her love. One by one, each of them is destroyed (or nearly destroyed) by their witting/unwitting self-delusion.About the only person who doesn’t nurse allusions is Wilcox’s first wife, a lingering representative of English yeomanry who senses her breed is dying away but who, unlike her husband, understand the substance and integrity of the principles that are being sacrificed to the gods of business. Howards End is her ancestral home, and as long as she lives, she serves as the roots that keep her family grounded. It is when she passes and her family embraces rootlessness that everyone comes to grief, in the way that all 19th century novels seem to do, with disillusion and disgrace eventually resolving into unhappy equilibrium. In the case of Howards End, everyone realizes that they have been betrayed by self-delusion and that, as the first Mrs. Wilcox understood all along, it’s the connections we make to land and family that sustain us. This isn’t the easiest read. The pretentious intellectualism of the first chapters is off-putting; then, later, it’s hard to stand by and watch the characters advance relentlessly towards their own destruction. But I found the themes of the tale worthy, the characters interesting, and Forster resolves the tale in an ending that isn’t unremittingly bleak, which is more than I can say for other novels of this period and genre.
    • 5/5
      Story set in Edwardian England of two sisters. A very interesting story of two independent, socially conscious females during a time when men still ruled and women had few if any rights. I found the characters interesting, the story is engaging though some of the social commentary gets a bit much, over all, a good story and picture of Edwardian England.The novel examines England at the turn of the century through three families; the Wilcox (representing Imperialism), the Schlegels (½ German siblings who pursue cultural of reading, education, art and philosophy), and the Basts (a young couple representing the lower middle class). Through these three groups, the author shows us Edwardian England social conduct and manners, the upper class idealism and materialism, and the effects of poverty on the poor. I enjoyed the story and so far consider it the best of E. M Forster though I’ve only read one other, A Room With a View. The Schlegel sisters were such strong female characters to the point that I wondered how a male author of the time could write so well of these women. This was a contemporary novel of its time. Women suffrage was something that was discussed but not realized. Meg and Helen were both well read, intellectuals who enjoyed philosophy and expressing their opinions. I liked Meg best and found Helen a bit annoying but in the end, she came through. Meg is more conventional and Helen more adventurous and emotional. Besides being a good example of social commentary, it’s a really good story.
    • 5/5
      Just re-read this and now am reading Zadie Smith's On Beauty. I was obsessed with Forster in high school (Maurice, etc) and am happy to know that Howards End not only holds up but in fact is improved by time. I found myself thinking of Mrs. Dalloway quite a bit. Also, I enjoyed the depiction of the posh ladies' discussion circles, in which rich British ladies debate how best to give their money away to the poor. I was also shocked by how obvious/explicit the queer content is now. I thought I was reading so naughtily and detectivishly when I first read it, but it's laid quite bare. Odd.
    • 4/5
      There are a million books about the inner lives of English people. Here is one of them.
    • 5/5
      One of the densest books I've ever read. And I mean that in a good way -- it's like one of those Byzantine ivory carvings (no movie tie-in pun intended) that open up and have all those tiny devotional episodes going on inside. Layers and layers of commentary all wrapped up in this almost fragile -- but actually really forceful -- writing. What a total trip.
    • 4/5
      This novel had so many lines that I wanted to write down and save for later. I might have done so but after a while it seemed less than feasible. There were just too many! Forster is pretty remarkable as a twentieth-century writer for being able to produce floaty philosophical prose from his narratorial perch.

      The introduction to my edition (Everyman) approached it as a novel about the English class system and critiqued it for arguing that you could solve the class wars with the power of true love.

      But really I think to write anything about this book without using the word "feminism" at least once is appalling. This is a great feminist novel, and it's not trying to solve the problems of a society - it's showing how an individual can learn to become an authentic, integrated person and thus overcome gender roles and cultural norms. Love doesn't solve anything; love is in fact imperfect until the characters figure out who they are and what they really want.

      Of course, I could still fault Forster for creating a protagonist who tries to reform a man with the power of love and arguably succeeds. Margaret's efforts do fail miserably until Henry is overcome by his own wrongdoing in the person of Charles (the Mr. Rochester solution, so to speak), but for Margaret to have married him and then to be vindicated by the plot is questionable. "Marry losers because eventually they'll reform themselves" is bad advice. But Henry Wilcox isn't a really bad loser, and Margaret loves him, and we're shown the real consequences of her marrying him pre-reform (she's even willing to leave him when he rejects Helen), so that's all right I suppose.
    • 4/5
      I enjoyed reading this novel several years ago and, like other great novels, found it more insightful and deeper upon rereading. Forster’s novel, regarded by many as his best, turns upon the beauty which Margaret Schlegel glimpses within her chosen one, Mr. Wilcox. Where others see only a man bound by his snobbery, his wealth, and his homilies — “My motto is Concentrate” — Margaret sees only a life-challenge:"It did not seem so difficult. She need trouble him with no gift of her own. She would only point out the salvation that was latent in his own soul, and in the soul of every man. Only connect! That was the whole of her sermon. Only connect the prose and the passion, and both will be exalted, and human love will be seen at its height."The portrait of Margaret and her sister and brother, Helen and Tibby, can be seen as emblematic of Forster's own liberal values. The Schlegels are devoted to living a civilized life that cherishes the arts, music, literature, and thinking. This life is in contrast to the Wilcox family who value practical affairs, materialism, and suspicion of imagination. Their attempts to unite result in conflicts. Of the minor characters I found the sad life of Leonard Bast particularly poignant. The novel is beautifully written even if its details sometimes fail to convince the reader of the reality of the characters.
    • 2/5
      Apparently I will never tire of swimming against the tide. This opus has been consecrated as some sort of modern classic -- whatever in Hell that is supposed to mean -- but I must fail to join in the Hosannas. I am well aware that one must carefully distinguish the artist from the artistic product, yet somehow in this story I discerned a kind of mind-spiritedness or at-least arrogance behind the principal character, who already had plenty of it in her own right. Too bad, since Forster at his best can be enjoyable and even instructive.
    • 5/5
      Along with Passage to India, one of Forster's two great novels that deserve to be called great literaure. Howard's End alone manages to take on large themes while keeping much of the charm and warmth that draw many readers to Forster's earlier novels of awakening.

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    Howards End - E. M. (Edward Morgan) Forster

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    Howards End

    by E. M. Forster

    Chapter 1

    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 tomorrow.  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 bedrooms 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 greengage-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 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 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 women'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 view's 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.

    Chapter 2

    Margaret glanced at her sister's note and pushed it over the breakfast-table to her aunt.  There was a moment's hush, and then the flood-gates opened.

        I can tell you nothing, Aunt Juley.  I know no more than you do.  We met--we only met the father and mother abroad last spring.  I know so little that I didn't even know their son's name.  It's all so-- She waved her hand and laughed a little.

        In that case it is far too sudden.

        Who knows, Aunt Juley, who knows?

        But, Margaret dear, I mean we mustn't be unpractical now that we've come to facts.  It is too sudden, surely.

        Who knows!

        But Margaret dear--

        I'll go for her other letters, said Margaret.  No, I won't, I'll finish my breakfast.  In fact, I haven't them.  We met the Wilcoxes on an awful expedition that we made from Heidelberg to Speyer.  Helen and I had got it into our heads that there was a grand old cathedral at Speyer--the Archbishop of Speyer was one of the seven electors--you know--'Speyer, Maintz, and Köln.' Those three sees once commanded the Rhine Valley and got it the name of Priest Street.

        I still feel quite uneasy about this business, Margaret.

        "The train crossed by a bridge of boats, and at first sight it looked quite fine.  But oh, in five minutes we had seen the whole thing.  The cathedral had been ruined, absolutely ruined, by restoration; not an inch left of the original structure.  We wasted a whole day, and came across the Wilcoxes as we were eating our sandwiches in the public gardens.  They too, poor things, had been taken in--they were actually stopping at Speyer--and they rather liked Helen insisting that they must fly with us to Heidelberg.  As a matter of fact, they did come on next day.  We all took some drives together.  They knew us well enough to ask Helen to come and see them--at least, I was asked too, but Tibby's illness prevented me, so last Monday she went alone.  That's all.  You know as much as I do now.  It's a young man out the unknown.  She was to have come back Saturday, but put off till Monday, perhaps on account of--I don't know.

        She broke off, and listened to the sounds of a London morning.  Their house was in Wickham Place, and fairly quiet, for a lofty promontory of buildings separated it from the main thoroughfare.  One had the sense of a backwater, or rather of an estuary, whose waters flowed in from the invisible sea, and ebbed into a profound silence while the waves without were still beating.  Though the promontory consisted of flats--expensive, with cavernous entrance halls, full of concierges and palms--it fulfilled its purpose, and gained for the older houses opposite a certain measure of peace.  These, too, would be swept away in time, and another promontory would rise upon their site, as humanity piled itself higher and higher on the precious soil of London.

        Mrs. Munt had her own method of interpreting her nieces.  She decided that Margaret was a little hysterical, and was trying to gain time by a torrent of talk.  Feeling very diplomatic, she lamented the fate of Speyer, and declared that never, never should she be so misguided as to visit it, and added of her own accord that the principles of restoration were ill understood in Germany.  The Germans, she said, are too thorough, and this is all very well sometimes, but at other times it does not do.

        Exactly, said Margaret; Germans are too thorough. And her eyes began to shine.

        Of course I regard you Schlegels as English, said Mrs. Munt hastily--English to the backbone.

        Margaret leaned forward and stroked her hand.

        And that reminds me--Helen's letter--

        Oh, yes, Aunt Juley, I am thinking all right about Helen's letter.  I know--I must go down and see her.  I am thinking about her all right.  I am meaning to go down

        But go with some plan, said Mrs. Munt, admitting into her kindly voice a note of exasperation.  Margaret, if I may interfere, don't be taken by surprise.  What do you think of the Wilcoxes?  Are they our sort?  Are they likely people?  Could they appreciate Helen, who is to my mind a very special sort of person?  Do they care about Literature and Art?  That is most important when you come to think of it.  Literature and Art.  Most important.  How old would the son be?  She says 'younger son.' Would he be in a position to marry?  Is he likely to make Helen happy?  Did you gather--

        I gathered nothing.

        They began to talk at once.

        Then in that case--

        In that case I can make no plans, don't you see.

        On the contrary--

        I hate plans.  I hate lines of action.  Helen isn't a baby.

        Then in that case, my dear, why go down?

        Margaret was silent.  If her aunt could not see why she must go down, she was not going to tell her.  She was not going to say I love my dear sister; I must be near her at this crisis of her life.  The affections are more reticent than the passions, and their expression more subtle.  If she herself should ever fall in love with a man, she, like Helen, would proclaim it from the house-tops, but as she only loved a sister she used the voiceless language of sympathy.

        I consider you odd girls, continued Mrs. Munt, and very wonderful girls, and in many ways far older than your years.  But--you won't be offended? --frankly I feel you are not up to this business.  It requires an older person.  Dear, I have nothing to call me back to Swanage. She spread out her plump arms.  I am all at your disposal.  Let me go down to this house whose name I forget instead of you.

        Aunt Juley--she jumped up and kissed her--I must, must go to Howards End myself.  You don't exactly understand, though I can never thank you properly for offering.

        I do understand, retorted Mrs. Munt, with immense confidence.  I go down in no spirit of interference, but to make inquiries.  Inquiries are necessary.  Now, I am going to be rude.  You would say the wrong thing; to a certainty you would.  In your anxiety for Helen's happiness you would offend the whole of these Wilcoxes by asking one of your impetuous questions--not that one minds offending them.

        I shall ask no questions.  I have it in Helen's writing that she and a man are in love.  There is no question to ask as long as she keeps to that.  All the rest isn't worth a straw.  A long engagement if you like, but inquiries, questions, plans, lines of action--no, Aunt Juley, no.

        Away she hurried, not beautiful, not supremely brilliant, but filled with something that took the place of both qualities--something best described as a profound vivacity, a continual and sincere response to all that she encountered in her path through life.

        If Helen had written the same to me about a shop-assistant or a penniless clerk--

        Dear Margaret, do come into the library and shut the door.  Your good maids are dusting the banisters.

        --or if she had wanted to marry the man who calls for Carter Paterson, I should have said the same. Then, with one of those turns that convinced her aunt that she was not mad really and convinced observers of another type that she was not a barren theorist, she added: Though in the case of Carter Paterson I should want it to be a very long engagement indeed, I must say.

        I should think so, said Mrs. Munt; and, indeed, I can scarcely follow you.  Now, just imagine if you said anything of that sort to the Wilcoxes.  I understand it, but most good people would think you mad.  Imagine how disconcerting for Helen!  What is wanted is a person who will go slowly, slowly in this business, and see how things are and where they are likely to lead to.

        Margaret was down on this.

        But you implied just now that the engagement must be broken off.

        I think probably it must; but slowly.

        Can you break an engagement off slowly?  Her eyes lit up.  What's an engagement made of, do you suppose?  I think it's made of some hard stuff, that may snap, but can't break.  It is different to the other ties of life.  They stretch or bend.  They admit of degree.  They're different.

        Exactly so.  But won't you let me just run down to Howards House, and save you all the discomfort?  I will really not interfere, but I do so thoroughly understand the kind of thing you Schlegels want that one quiet look round will be enough for me.

        Margaret again thanked her, again kissed her, and then ran upstairs to see her brother.

        He was not so well.

        The hay fever had worried him a good deal all night.  His head ached, his eyes were wet, his mucous membrane, he informed her, was in a most unsatisfactory condition.  The only thing that made life worth living was the thought of Walter Savage Landor, from whose Imaginary Conversations she had promised to read at frequent intervals during the day.

        It was rather difficult.  Something must be done about Helen.  She must be assured that it is not a criminal offence to love at first sight.  A telegram to this effect would be cold and cryptic, a personal visit seemed each moment more impossible.  Now the doctor arrived, and said that Tibby was quite bad.  Might it really be best to accept Aunt Juley's kind offer, and to send her down to Howards End with a note? 

        Certainly Margaret was impulsive.  She did swing rapidly from one decision to another.  Running downstairs into the library, she cried--Yes, I have changed my mind; I do wish that you would go.

        There was a train from King's Cross at eleven.  At half-past ten Tibby, with rare self-effacement, fell asleep, and Margaret was able to drive her aunt to the station.

        "You will remember, Aunt Juley, not to be drawn into discussing the engagement.  Give my letter to Helen, and say whatever you feel yourself, but do keep clear of the relatives.  We have scarcely got their names straight yet, and besides, that sort of thing is so uncivilized and wrong.

        So uncivilized? queried Mrs. Munt, fearing that she was losing the point of some brilliant remark.

        Oh, I used an affected word.  I only meant would you please only talk the thing over with Helen.

        Only with Helen.

        Because-- But it was no moment to expound the personal nature of love.  Even Margaret shrank from it, and contented herself with stroking her good aunt's hand, and with meditating, half sensibly and half poetically, on the journey that was about to begin from King's Cross.

        Like many others who have lived long in a great capital, she had strong feelings about the various railway termini.  They are our gates to the glorious and the unknown.  Through them we pass out into adventure and sunshine, to them alas!  we return.  In Paddington all Cornwall is latent and the remoter west; down the inclines of Liverpool Street lie fenlands and the illimitable Broads; Scotland is through the pylons of Euston; Wessex behind the poised chaos of Waterloo.  Italians realize this, as is natural; those of them who are so unfortunate as to serve as waiters in Berlin call the Anhalt Bahnhof the Stazione d'Italia, because by it they must return to their homes.  And he is a chilly Londoner who does not endow his stations with some personality, and extend to them, however shyly, the emotions of fear and love.

        To Margaret--I hope that it will not set the reader against her--the station of King's Cross had always suggested Infinity.  Its very situation--withdrawn a little behind the facile splendours of St. Pancras--implied a comment on the materialism of life.  Those two great arches, colourless, indifferent, shouldering between them an unlovely clock, were fit portals for some eternal adventure, whose issue might be prosperous, but would certainly not be expressed in the ordinary language of prosperity.  If you think this ridiculous, remember that it is not Margaret who is telling you about it; and let me hasten to add that they were in plenty of time for the train; that Mrs. Munt, though she took a second-class ticket, was put by the guard into a first (only two seconds on the train, one smoking and the other babies--one cannot be expected to travel with babies); and that Margaret, on her return to Wickham Place, was confronted with the following telegram:

    All over.  Wish I had never written.  Tell no one.

    --Helen  

        But Aunt Juley was gone--gone irrevocably, and no power on earth could stop her.

    Chapter 3

    Most complacently did Mrs. Munt rehearse her mission.  Her nieces were independent young women, and it was not often that she was able to help them.  Emily's daughters had never been quite like other girls.  They had been left motherless when Tibby was born, when Helen was five and Margaret herself but thirteen.  It was before the passing of the Deceased Wife's Sister Bill, so Mrs. Munt could without impropriety offer to go and keep house at Wickham Place.  But her brother-in-law, who was peculiar and a German, had referred the question to Margaret, who with the crudity of youth had answered, No, they could manage much better alone. Five years later Mr. Schlegel had died too, and Mrs. Munt had repeated her offer.  Margaret, crude no longer, had been grateful and extremely nice, but the substance of her answer had been the same.  I must not interfere a third time, thought Mrs. Munt.  However, of course she did.  She learnt, to her horror, that Margaret,

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