Dorothy Richardson is existing just above the poverty line, doing secretarial work at a dentist's office and living in a seedy boarding house in Bloomsbury, when she is invited to spend the weekend with a childhood friend. Jane has recently married a writer who is hovering on the brink of fame. His name is H.G. Wells, or Bertie, as they call him.
Bertie appears unremarkable at first. But then Dorothy notices his grey-blue eyes taking her in, openly signaling approval. He tells her he and Jane have an agreement which allows them the freedom to take lovers, although Dorothy can tell her friend would not be happy with that arrangement.
Not wanting to betray Jane, yet unable to draw back, Dorothy free-falls into an affair with Bertie. Then a new boarder arrives at the housebeautiful Veronica Leslie-Jonesand Dorothy finds herself caught between Veronica and Bertie. Amidst the personal dramas and wreckage of a militant suffragette march, Dorothy finds her voice as a writer.
Louisa Treger's The Lodger is a beautifully intimate novel that is at once an introduction to one of the most important writers of the 20th century and a compelling story of one woman tormented by unconventional desires.
|Publisher:||St. Martin's Press|
|Product dimensions:||5.70(w) x 8.30(h) x 1.10(d)|
About the Author
LOUISA TREGER, a classical violinist, studied at the Royal College of Music and the Guildhall School of Music and worked as a freelance orchestral player and teacher. She subsequently turned to literature, gaining a First Class degree and a Ph.D. in English at University College London, where she focused on early-twentieth-century women's writing and was awarded the West Scholarship and the Rosa Morison Scholarship "for distinguished work in the study of English Language and Literature." The Lodger is her first novel.
Read an Excerpt
Dorothy stepped off the train. She could feel the clammy sinking sensation beginning to creep round her, as though she was a ghost drifting through the world of the living. Taking a deep breath to anchor herself, she looked around. It was a small clean station, brightened by hanging baskets of ruffled mauve and white sweet peas, the sharp green of their leaves almost translucent in the May sunlight. She told herself there was nothing sinister; no one was going to find her guilty. It was just a visit to an old school friend, recently married.
A short, tiny-footed man was hurrying toward her, already talking and flailing his arms in the air. He stopped in front of her; he wasn’t much taller than she was. He had sandy hair and a scraggy mustache; he could easily pass for an undernourished shop assistant. Yet as this thought flickered through her mind, she noticed his grey-blue dark-ringed eyes, vivid and edgy, taking her in approvingly. Instantly, hot color stained her cheeks and she willed it away fiercely, impotently.
He either didn’t notice, or he chose to ignore her confusion: perhaps, she had misinterpreted his look? He held out his hand; his grip was warm and confident. “Miss Richardson, how nice to meet you. I’m Herbert Wells, but my friends call me Bertie. I’m delighted you’ve come for the weekend; Jane has spoken of you so often.”
“Jane…?” She faltered, disoriented.
He grinned. “My wife, your old school chum. The rest of the world knows her as Amy Catherine, but I’ve shoved the name Jane on her, and she has graciously taken it for everyday use.”
She returned his smile hesitantly; she was unmoored by him. Jane? The name didn’t fit her friend. It was practical and plain; a touch governessy, even.
Bertie carried on talking. His voice was high and reedy, almost atonal. But the words he spoke soon dissolved any taint of weakness or mediocrity. He asked questions by making statements: “You haven’t much luggage. We can take it ourselves, without help from the porter. You found us brilliantly. The house isn’t far from here.” Words seemed to stream off the ends of his mustache and tumble down his waistcoat.
They approached the house from behind. As Bertie explained on their walk, it was built to open onto a view of the Kentish sea. He had designed it himself, he added, and Dorothy could feel his pride in creating such a home for his new wife and the family they would one day have.
It was an imposing and attractively proportioned house, crowning the cliffs ninety feet above the ocean, with lawns and arbors reaching down to the beach. Dorothy saw a tennis court, a croquet lawn, and several alcoves sprinkled with chairs for reading, thinking, or writing. The walls of the house were thick, and gave a sense of great stability and continuance.
As soon as they stepped through the Gothic front door, Amy Catherine—or Jane—came hurrying to greet them; she hugged Dorothy with a little cry of excitement. “Dora! I’m so glad you’re here, after all this time!”
The contact with someone from Dorothy’s old life—perhaps it was the pressure of Amy Catherine’s warm and pliant body against hers—brought a flood of feeling: a blend of relief and pain so potent, Dorothy feared it would crack her open.
Dorothy broke away and looked at her. Slender and fine-featured, Amy Catherine had thick fair hair and large limpid brown eyes. She was simply dressed in a white muslin blouse and navy skirt, with no ornaments.
Amy Catherine was studying Dorothy’s face carefully.
“You’re as pretty as ever,” she pronounced, in her soft clear voice. “Your hair has turned slightly darker blonde, but it suits you, and you’ve still got your lovely complexion. You’re looking a bit tired and thin, though. A weekend of sea air and home cooking will do you no end of good. Let’s go straight upstairs; I’ll show you to your room before dinner.”
She led Dorothy up a wide green staircase to an airy high-ceilinged room that had an unobstructed view of the sea. A stream of golden light blazed through the open lattice windows, and shone in patches on the ceiling and walls. The room was dominated by a canopied four-poster bed, its counterpane embellished with brick-red flowers. A Primus stove stood inside the fireplace with a polished brass kettle on it. A little table nearby, covered with a brightly patterned cloth, held a teapot, a lemon, and a glass. Amy Catherine opened another door to reveal an adjoining bathroom. “See, you can live as though you’re in your own home,” she said gleefully. “Everything’s bang up to date. You’re one of our first visitors.”
“It’s perfectly lovely, Catherine; I’m dumb with admiration. Just look at you, a married woman, running a grown-up house.” As she said it, she remembered how even in their school days, Amy Catherine seemed to possess a cryptic knowledge of how things worked, and exactly what needed to be done to get on in the world. Dorothy had half envied her without really wanting to be like her, because even the contemplation of such efficiency stripped the world of its beauty and mystery.
“You dear old thing!” Amy Catherine walked over and hugged her. “I heard about your mother, Dora … I’m so sorry.”
Dorothy broke free and sank onto the bed. She couldn’t reply; this was what she had dreaded. How much had Catherine been told? Was she thinking what everyone else thought, but no one had dared say to her: If you hadn’t left her alone, she would still be alive …
“My father…” Amy Catherine hesitated. “He went the same way.”
Dorothy managed to find her voice. “Yes, I heard.”
Amy Catherine sat down beside her. For a time, neither of them moved nor spoke. But there was relief in having faced the same horror: each knew the brush of its dank webbed fingers. For once, Dorothy didn’t feel blighted, removed from humanity.
“I’m glad to see you,” Amy Catherine said at last. “We’ve heaps of time to talk and catch up.”
“I’m glad to see you, too, Cath.”
She was taken aback to find the name sitting awkwardly on her tongue. The thoroughness with which Bertie had transformed her old friend into Jane was astonishing.
* * *
DINNER WAS PRESIDED over by two cheerful women servants. As they carved and opened bottles, Bertie turned to Dorothy. “So, you were at school with Jane.”
“What was Jane like at school?”
“Well,” she began, “she’s still the same. People are themselves; they don’t change much, do they?”
For a few moments, there was nothing but the sound of the fire flickering in the mild air. He was confounded by her banality. The maids began to hand around plates piled high with rich-smelling meat and vegetables.
“Did you see the sunset?” Bertie asked, at last. “It was extraordinary this evening; a pink effulgence basted all over the sky … God evidently ate raspberry custard for supper.”
“Don’t be provocative,” Jane said mildly. “I sold my soul to the devil a long time ago, but for all you know, Dora’s a believer.”
“What does selling your soul feel like?” Dorothy asked, trying for light-heartedness.
“Quite exhilarating, really.”
Bertie drained his glass of wine. “I hope you aren’t offended by our lack of piety, Miss Richardson?”
She shook her head.
“Good,” he said. “You see, personally, I think God was invented by man. Primitive man looked at the cosmos and couldn’t bear the idea of being alone; it was too isolating, too downright depressing. So he created ‘Mr. G’ as I like to call him, out of his fear of natural phenomena and his unquenchable need for reassurance.” He paused for breath, making little grunts in the back of his nose, as if he was trying to stave off rejoinders or interruptions before he’d had a chance to marshal his thoughts. “Most people don’t want to admit that there’s nothing but man, or—dreadful thought—that we’re descended from the ape … but the picture’s not entirely bleak. We’ve made some marvelous discoveries as we’ve evolved, like science. We should all be looking to science for salvation, not religion. Religion has had its day.”
His way of seeing things made life unbearable. No God. No creation. Everyone fighting for existence, like animals … the strong clawing their way over the weak. Dorothy could feel astonishment and belligerence spilling out of her and—despite herself—admiration. She tried to rein in all her tangled emotions behind a relaxed enthusiastic smile, but they streamed from the pores of her skin and obstructed her limbs, making her ham-fisted with her cutlery. What made him so infuriatingly sure of everything? He was like a volcano, continually bubbling over with urgent thoughts and incandescent ideas.
He was still going on about scientific imagination, scientific invention. “It’s our mission … imposing scientific method on primordial mayhem; we are winning against mayhem … nothing that came before science was worth contemplating…”
“I don’t care a button for science,” Dorothy burst out, unable to restrain herself. “It’s just speculation; tittle-tattle about the cosmos.”
“My word! What an extraordinary view!”
“It’s true. Darwin chattered about apes and when he got old he exactly resembled one, and felt sorry that he hadn’t given more time to other interests, like art and music. One day, someone will find out that his conclusions were mistaken, that he omitted or miscalculated some vital piece of the puzzle, and his hypothesis, which has given thousands of people sleepless nights, will be discredited.”
“Darwin was a great man. His theories aren’t a matter of speculation, they are fundamental truths; the cornerstone of biology … I can’t see your difficulty with him, not even with the strongest of magnifying glasses.”
Bertie proclaimed facts, not opinions. Dorothy disagreed with nearly everything he said, and was beginning to resent the way he monopolized the conversation.
She wanted to talk to Jane. “What do you remember about Miss Sandell’s school?” she wanted to ask. “Do you remember our English teacher, who was Browning’s pupil? What about Fräulein Schneider—she was so hot tempered, her lessons were a series of emotional scenes. Do you realize how lucky we were to be given classes in logic and psychology instead of household skills, to be taught to think for ourselves and form opinions? I didn’t then, though I’m starting to now…”
But Bertie’s lively monologue prevented her from finding out what Jane thought or felt.
As the meal progressed, Dorothy sensed uneasiness in Jane. She seemed to be chronically fearful lest a misunderstanding, an argument, a failure of good humor should occur. She was a jumble of anxiety and confidence. Her manner was bright, yet her voice was soft and unprepossessing. Her conversation consisted mainly of introducing subjects for the others to take up and develop, trying to keep things going. During pauses in the talk, she looked uneasy, almost scared. Once dessert was served, however, she seemed to relax visibly, as though a great weight had rolled off her.
“Tell us about your life, Dora,” she said at this stage. “It’s so long since I’ve seen you properly.” The reflections from the many candles on the table illuminated Jane’s pretty bare arms and glowed in her eyes.
Dorothy hesitated, searching for words to describe how far she had come. This was why she’d reached out to Jane after all this time: she wanted a long-standing friend to help reconcile her past self with the strange adventure of the present. And Jane had responded to her letter at once, with an invitation to stay for the weekend, so perhaps she felt the same need.
Dorothy took a sip of the delicate amber wine, feeling the warmth of it sliding through her veins, giving her courage. “After my mother died, I longed to escape from the world of women,” she said, slowly. “So I moved to London; I live in a boardinghouse in Bloomsbury. I’m a secretary to a Harley Street dentist at a pound a week. The hours are long, and I don’t have much leisure. But the reward is a kind of freedom—I’m able to attend lectures and a range of political meetings. London is a melting pot of societies and ideas, and I can dip in and out of them as I please.”
She stopped, realizing that in order to hold the Wells’s attention, she would have to be clever and amusing. She probed her mind for a suitable anecdote, yet without knowing quite how it happened, found herself pouring out her heart about work. She told them about the grueling hours, the cold which turned her fingernails blue, the cleaning solution used for dental instruments that dried and cracked her skin …
She broke off, worried she’d lost them. But Bertie was nodding sympathetically.
“Years ago, I worked as a draper’s apprentice,” he said. “I knew the grind of it all: the endless hours, the suffocating tedium, the many petty tyrannies. The feeling that I was trapped forever in a mindless, soulless machine from which there was no way out … but I can suggest a way of freeing yourself at one blow.”
“Do what I did. Write a novel.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Just like that?”
“Of course not. It takes more work than goes into many a doctoral thesis, and countless arid days and fruitless attempts.”
Dorothy found herself watching the curious mouthing of his lips as they formed the words, half hidden by the thin mustache, and saved from weakness only by his ironic smile.
“The Time Machine was born after years of poverty and disappointments and cutting my teeth with journalism,” he went on. “I wrote it on holiday in Sevenoaks. Do you remember, Jane?”
“Indeed I do, my dear.”
“I couldn’t have done it without Jane,” Bertie admitted. “Her unwavering belief in me kept me going, even long after I’d ceased to believe in myself.” He turned to Jane. “Remember how we used to feel: it was you and me against the world?”
“Yes, I remember.” Jane was looking at him fondly.
For a moment, Bertie laid his hand on the back of Jane’s neck, beneath her hair. It was an astonishingly private gesture, so intimate and tender, Dorothy could hardly bear to watch. A pang of envy and longing shot through her.
“I wrote at an open window on hot August nights, with the moths hurling themselves against the lamp,” he said. “I could hear the landlady in the garden below complaining loudly over the fence to her neighbor about my immoderate use of her lamp. So I wrote faster than ever, but she was still unhappy with me. She’d discovered, by snooping in our luggage and finding divorce papers from my first wife, that Jane and I weren’t yet married. She was scandalized by our morals and by the shameless way we’d foisted ourselves on her and taken advantage of her innocence…”
As they were about to get up from the table, Bertie said “Hasn’t she got roses in her cheeks now, eh Jane? You must come and see us more often, Miss Richardson. Being here evidently agrees with you. And we like having you around, don’t we Jane?”
A sense of belonging was being offered. For a moment she hesitated, not quite sure how to respond. “Thank you, I like being here,” she said shyly.
Meeting Jane’s eyes, she was surprised by their suddenly tense and watchful expression.
* * *
DOROTHY GOT READY for bed in the comfortable high-ceilinged guest room. When she turned out the gas, the windows shone faintly with moonlight. The air around her was still warm from the gas. She climbed into the four-poster bed, feeling drained. Perhaps, she’d be able to sleep properly here.
She closed her eyes. Almost at once, the well-known flashbacks started arriving, playing themselves out vividly behind her sealed eyelids, transporting her back to the event that had torn her life apart.
She sat upright, trying to erase the image of her mother’s body sprawled on the floor, runnels of blood forming viscous pools on the tattered linoleum. So much blood; Dorothy never knew a person’s frame contained that much.
She pressed her knuckles hard into her eyes; pinpricks of brilliant white light danced in front of them. But it was useless; the memory was indelibly seared into her mind. Life had turned her inside out in seconds; everything disintegrated, and nothing was ever the same. All that was familiar vanished in a few instants, and the grief and guilt were like swallowing splinters of broken glass.
* * *
AFTER BREAKFAST THE next morning, Dorothy went for a walk in the garden. Jane was busy with household chores, and Bertie was nowhere to be seen. She was relieved to be alone. The night had left her raw and disunited; she needed space to gather up the scattered pieces of herself and glue them back into a semblance of normality.
The garden was large and well kept, and it took time to explore. At the bottom of the lawn was a rose garden filled with lush bushes, the roses still in bud. A covered walk made of growing plants trained over a trellis ran down the middle of it. Pansies and foxgloves bloomed thickly in wide flower beds. She wandered arbitrarily across a walled vegetable garden that held cherry and apple trees, and through a door into a terraced square.
Bertie was sitting at a stone table, pen in hand and sheets of paper spread in front of him. Jane had warned Dorothy not to disturb him, but when he looked up and saw her, a pleased smile lit his face. He patted the empty space on the stone bench next to him and said, “Come and sit with me for a while.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want to disturb you.”
“It’s only a book review. Something I’m scribbling for The Saturday Review.”
She did as she was told, feeling suddenly awkward and shy. She glanced down at her hands twined in her lap. They looked large and raw, like inert cuts of meat—repulsive. Why did no one else’s hands look like that? Bertie’s hands were strong and blunt-fingered; his rolled-up shirtsleeves revealed forearms covered with golden hairs. She looked up and saw him following her gaze. His eyes were densely blue; the dark bands circling the irises looked like they had been dipped in ink. His expression was hard to read.
For a long moment they sat in silence, the sunshine pouring down on them like melted butter. The air was cool and refreshing; Dorothy could feel it soothing away the ravages of the night, making a delicious contrast to the warmth of the sun on her face. A light breeze moved Bertie’s sandy hair.
“May I look?” she asked.
“Not yet. It’s still in its infancy.” He stacked up the pages with care and placed them face down on the table.
“Is it easier than writing novels?”
“In some ways, but it’s a great responsibility. The reviewer must take care not to destroy early attempts, especially ones by writers who are just honing their skills. Authors are like tender young seedlings, they need a great deal of nursing. Sadly, not all critics realize that.”
Bertie paused, his face alight with humor. “We reviewers tread a fine line; it’s not easy to get right. Some of us behave like careless gardeners, soaking the plants in the water of compliments and drowning them, while others refuse sustenance entirely until the plants shrivel up and die. There are a handful of wise and long-sighted caretakers, but they’re a rare breed.”
Dorothy smiled, half closing her eyes. His views seemed less objectionable than they had last night. In fact, he had a vivid way of looking at things that lifted them out of the commonplace.
She opened her eyes. The sunlight cut into the trees in front of her, producing a mass of glittering spires. Two blackbirds, singing a duet in contrary rhythm, stopped at the same moment. In their silence, she could faintly hear Jane, out of sight behind the red walls of the vegetable garden, humming and enjoying herself as she worked. Dorothy could picture her in her old faded bonnet, a basket at her feet and her beloved red-handled gardening shears in her gloved hands.
Copyright © 2014 by Louisa Treger
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
I had high hopes for this novel, because I love the idea of exploring the lives of obscure historical and literary figures. For some reason I felt a bit nervous about "The Lodger". The cover itself is a red flag, featuring an anachronistic image. The action takes place in 1906, but the dress on Dorothy is clearly from the Victorian era. You wouldn't put a girl in a poodle skirt on a novel set during the Reagan era, would you? That was just the first blunder. My biggest disappointment is that there is not a single original idea in the novel, not a single thought that has not already been done to death. It's just a medley of cliche Edwardian angst. I'm sorry, but Bertie's atheistic bravado is nothing new. Suggesting that God is an invention of needy human beings is not exactly groundbreaking. The diction is very melodramatic and hot-house, deprived of subtlety and sophistication to the point where it's insulting to the reader's intelligence and imagination. Having the obvious overstated and overexplained gets a little tiresome. Obviously, if you have the hots for your best friend's husband, you'll feel at least a little bit of guilt. Why reiterate it over and over again? The neurotic, sexually confused protagonist goes through life with a perpetual abdominal cramp. 90% of the time she is "sick to her stomach" and "twisted with guilt" and "burning with jealousy". When the main character is in that much distress all the time, the reader become desensitized and stops taking her suffering seriously. The book is filled with generic phrases like "I always hurt/betray the ones I love". The phrase "he kissed the soft skin on her wrist" is repeated twice in a row. I would like to read for once "he kissed the hairy knuckles of her sausage-like fingers". The description of the miscarriage is also unnecessarily melodramatic. You'd think Dorothy was being tortured by the Spanish Inquisition. (I've had enough miscarriages to know that they are rather anticlimactic, with some cramping and passing of tissue, but it's hardly the stuff of Dante's Inferno). Overall, my heart does not break for a woman who thinks that working at a dentist's office and living in a boarding house is hell on earth. There is too much hand-wringing over the uncertainty of her future, whereas she has it better than 90% of fellow Englishwomen. All in all, I am grateful that the novel was only 200 pages. It's about right. I am glad that there are enough people who enjoyed the novel. It's an admirable first attempt.
The Lodger is a narrative masterwork, and a milestone. You can trace with your finger round the globe, and especially, over English speaking countries find feminist authors rising like poppies and over taking every field of contemporary writing. This is due, in no small part to figures like Dorothy Richardson, who Treger fully recreates as a compelling soul, tortured by the constraints of her era and giving herself to the author, ironically, of The Outline Of History. Feminist writers will never be dragged back through history; they will ignore previous boundaries of faith, society and sexual identity. The Lodger affirms it with courage and artistry and Treger’s novel comes itself full circle: the author was drawn to Richardson by a quote about her by Virginia Woolf that aptly describes Treger’s own skill: ” ( She) has invented a sentence we might call the psychological sentence..more elastic fiber than the old..capable of..suspending the frailest particles.’ Charles Bane, Jr., author of The Chapbook: Love Poems; Creator of The Meaning Of Poetry series for the Gutenberg Project, and current nominee, Poet Laureate of Florida.
A special thank you to St. Martin's Press, Thomas Dunne Books, and NetGalley for an ARC in exchange for an honest review. An emotional gripping and riveting debut novel, The Lodger by Louisa Treger, is a compelling journey of one woman’s struggle between a past, and a new—complex, fascinating, yet unconventional world. Set in 1906, in London—Dorothy is experiencing life for the first time to the extremes; a world of solace with her newfound writing while striving for independence without marriage or dependence on a man; her guilt and betrayal to her best friend (Jane), an unhealthy attraction and illicit affair with a famous writer—married and complicated man H.G. Wells, and a woman she is passionate about (Veronica)— she desires to give her heart and soul to her, but sees no future in a time when this lifestyle is socially unacceptable. Wow! A powerful and emotional novel, was blown away-not only by the story, characters, details, and the in depth research; however, more importantly, the incredible creativity, and the voice of the author. Treger, grabs you from the first page and never takes you away from her strong main protagonist, Dorothy—her intimate, thoughts, feelings, the conflicting emotions, and the descriptive settings, which puts you almost in a trance, making it even more compelling. The Lodger sets itself apart from others, due to Treger’s imagination and her coloring inside and outside the lines blending fact and fiction -- Brilliantly executed! The Lodger is a beautiful intimate novel, and one I highly recommend, as not only an introduction to one of the most important writers of the 20th century; more importantly, an introduction to a talented newfound writer, Louisa Treger for a moving debut novel. Looking forward to many more!