𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐨𝐥𝐥 𝐅𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐛𝐲 𝐄𝐥𝐢𝐳𝐚𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐡 𝐌𝐚𝐜𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐖

A doll-maker, a Pre-Raphaelite painter and a curiosity collector.

I don’t read romances however this promised to be creepy so I quite enjoyed it. The fetishization of sex is something I associate with the Victorians and this book does deliver on that, spinning the tale of Iris and her new artistic companion down a twisted path indeed.

“How he imagines her lying dead in a river, her hair about her like the corpse of a fox.”

Iris, our protagonist, is a doll-maker-turn-painter so her thoughts are framed by this romantic perspective on the way light falls, a face, how a shape or a glance may be suggestive. I was reminded of du Maurier’s Trilby in this sense, and how Iris finds herself in an artists’ studio of male characters – all quite recognisable and endearing in their characterisation.

The Great Exhibition is looming which drives the plot forward, evoking a sense of excitement and wonder for the displayed art and technologies in the newly-built Alexandra Palace. It is a remarkably quick read with short chapters and a cosy yet visceral view of 1850s London. And trust me; the story reminds you where you are quite cruelly at times.

The Doll Factory has a charming use of letters throughout the book which is how we get to know Louis, one of the male artists, incredibly well:

“𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚀𝚞𝚎𝚎𝚗, I am sorry for what happened to your painting. Just after breakfast, I happened upon this poem, accompanied by an ink-stained paw-print bearing a striking resemblance to that of your repentant nemesis. Could she be the author of this work? I admit her style is lacking but she is a fat quadruped who prefers snoozing to any form of intellectual fulfilment, so we can hardly blame the naughty beast for it. Yours, Louis.”

(This letter was followed by a long poem he penned, from the perspective of the wombat that ruined Iris’s painting. If the thought is confusing, read the book)