E. M. Forster

Howards End


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       E. M. Forster

      Howards End

      Published by Good Press, 2019

       [email protected]

      EAN 4057664185204

       CHAPTER I

       CHAPTER II

       CHAPTER III

       CHAPTER IV

       CHAPTER V

       CHAPTER VI

       CHAPTER VII

       CHAPTER VIII

       CHAPTER IX

       CHAPTER X

       CHAPTER XI

       CHAPTER XII

       CHAPTER XIII

       CHAPTER XIV

       CHAPTER XV

       CHAPTER XVI

       CHAPTER XVII

       CHAPTER XVIII

       CHAPTER XIX

       CHAPTER XX

       CHAPTER XXI

       CHAPTER XXII

       CHAPTER XXIII

       CHAPTER XXIV

       CHAPTER XXV

       CHAPTER XXVI

       CHAPTER XXVII

       CHAPTER XXVIII

       CHAPTER XXIX

       CHAPTER XXX

       CHAPTER XXXI

       CHAPTER XXXII

       CHAPTER XXXIII

       CHAPTER XXXIV

       CHAPTER XXXV

       CHAPTER XXXVI

       CHAPTER XXXVII

       CHAPTER XXXVIII

       CHAPTER XXXIX

       CHAPTER XL

       CHAPTER XLI

       CHAPTER XLII

       CHAPTER XLIII

       CHAPTER XLIV

       Table of Contents

      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