Howards End - E. M. Forster (world of reading .txt) 📗

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.”

II

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 floodgates 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, Mainz, 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’s 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 of 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 arise 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