Introduction

Humankind inhabits a world saturated with signs of its own making. We comprehend and navigate reality through the symbolic systems we construct, by naming, categorizing, attributing, describing, interpreting, and then reinterpreting the world around us (Whorf, 1956). Every phenomenon, to become visible and knowable, must be inscribed within this symbolic order (Lacan, 2006). To give a name or to depict something is to grant it a legitimate place within our cognitive and cultural frameworks. This act, however, is not neutral; it brings the object of description or depiction under control, turning it into something accessible and manageable (Foucault, 1978). This process encompasses not only the objects considered desirable in our environment, but also extends to perceived threats and endangering elements. Dangers must be recognized, marked, and framed preferably with an explicit warning sign or a hazard symbol, so they can be processed, reacted to, or dismissed. Through this semiotic act, the unknown and potentially threatening is made part of a shared symbolic system, rendered intelligible, and takes its prescribed place within that order.¹

The central theme of this article is the portrayal of geopolitical threat as perceived and visually negotiated within late imperial Russia. Specifically, we take a journey into the past and turn to the Russian Empire at the turn of the 20th century to explore how threats at the public level, particularly foreign political rivals, were visually depicted in Russian satirical media in order to make them more understandable and, ultimately, less menacing for the domestic reading public. Drawing on primary sources from key Russian satirical periodicals from that time such as Shut, Budil’nik, and Strekoza, this study examines how these satirical magazines helped to construct a visual political map of alliances and enmity at that time through animalistic metaphors. The concept of the world map as a bestiary, in which countries are depicted through zoomorphic, even bestial representations, allows us to examine the visual narratives through which the international rivals of the Russian Empire—namely the British Empire, China, and Japan—were represented.

The conceptual framework of this article treats caricature as a cultural mechanism that renders threats intelligible and emotionally manageable through humor. In these zoomorphic caricatures, rival nations were frequently portrayed as monstrous or predatory animals: visual embodiments of fear, foreignness, and moral inferiority. Yet, this same threatening imagery was accompanied by ridicule, absurdity, and comic exaggeration. The horrible and the hilarious worked in tandem to tame the perceived danger and offer symbolic mastery over geopolitical threats. As such, satirical cartoons became a powerful medium through which political tensions were processed and made more palatable for the educated readership. These depictions of the enemy, infused with elements of both horror and humor, reveal not only how foreign powers were imagined at the time, but also how Russian identity itself was constructed in contrast to this ‘beastly’ Other.

In pursuit of this objective, the article is structured as follows:

• First, I explore the metaphor of the world as an animal kingdom, examining the functions, expressive tools, and ideological implications of zoomorphic representations of countries. I also introduce the figure of the Dangerous Other / the Enemy, analyzing how bestial and monstrous imagery was used to embody the threat of foreign political powers and to establish a certain hierarchy.

• Second, I discuss the cartoons as a part of political language and investigate the process of “taming the beast”, including the dual function of horror and humor in cartoons as a means of coping with frustration from perceived foreign policy threats.

• Finally, I present three case studies of the Dangerous Other—cartoons representing the British Empire, China, and Japan—focusing on how each was zoomorphically depicted in Russian political caricature between 1890 and 1905.

Through this lens, I aim to shed light on the interplay between visual satire, cultural imagination, and imperial identity in a period of rising geopolitical tension and evolving mass media in late imperial Russia.

The World Map as an Animal Kingdom: The Logic of a Metaphor

We are all familiar with conventional geographical maps, those that display different countries with clearly delineated borders and dots of varying sizes to mark capitals and cities inside these flat areas. These maps function as simplified, miniature replicas of the globe, taken from a policy-oriented perspective. Such maps aim to offer a sense of accuracy and objectivity, appearing as a neutral mirror of reality, yet even these seemingly neutral depictions are imbued with symbolic meaning. After all, the sharp black boundary lines separating states on the map are not actually drawn on the ground; the maps are conceptual constructs imposed upon the physical world, a classic example of a second-order sign system (Harley, 1989). What we encounter here is a conversion of geographic reality into a symbolic mental space mediated by signs,² and in some cases, this symbolic reality becomes more real than the reality it replaces (Baudrillard, 1981; Caquard and Cartwright, 2014).

However, this minimalist and supposedly sterilized version of the world map is not the only way of imagining the geopolitical landscape. Throughout history, other modes of the world’s map representation have emerged, often far more imaginative and ideologically charged. One notable approach involves anthropomorphic depictions of nations, typically through idealized female figures rooted in classical iconography of the spirit of the nation or the allegories of ‘mother’-land. These personifications often take the form of sophisticated ancient goddesses, the depiction of civic virtues like Liberty or Justice, or ‘national mothers’ adorned with traditional symbols (Warner, 1985). This imagery was revived during the Renaissance and exploded in popularity during the 18th and 19th centuries with the rise of modern nationalism. The maternal register within this imagery functioned to naturalize the relationship between citizens and the state, representing it as protective and nurturing. One well-known example is Marianne, the embodiment of the French Republic, with her iconic Phrygian cap (Agulhon, 1981).

Anthropomorphic imagery elevates the nation from a geopolitical entity to a quasi-human figure endowed with intentionality, agency, and moral character. These representations suggest that countries possess attributes like rationality, courage, or benevolence, reinforcing national myths by giving the nation not just a body but a biography—a narrative of suffering and triumph, and fostering emotional attachment of citizens (Beller and Leerssen, 2007). In this symbolic logic, the nation becomes a self-aware actor, a collective persona that acts with purpose and is judged by human ethical standards (Bell, 2003). While rhetorically powerful, such personifications can also obscure the complexities of realpolitik by portraying states as a unified, agentive force capable of virtue or vice. These images invite readers and viewers to ascribe individual characteristics like bravery, cowardice, wisdom, or cruelty not to particular people or national leaders, but to entire nations, thus simplifying global dynamics into familiar moral narratives.

Another approach to representing the geopolitical landscape involves transforming the world map into a symbolic animal kingdom (Dreyfus, 2024). This zoomorphic mode of depiction draws upon deep-rooted cultural traditions, from heraldic emblems (Lung, 2018; Pastoureau, 1997) to more ancient totemic belief systems, in which people identified with certain animals believed to embody the spirit of their lineage or community. In zoomorphic imagery, the animal used to represent a particular country may derive from an already established heraldic tradition and is based on the zoomorphic image that the nation has chosen for itself, or it could be constructed entirely anew. In both cases, the choice of a specific animal character is never accidental. The choice is guided by the desired characteristics to be emphasized and the associations embedded in the target audience’s cultural code (Pickering, 2001). As I will show later in case studies, these choices reflect both symbolic logic and ideological intention of one who produces the image.

Crucially, the transformation of the world map into a bestiary signals a significant, though often implicit, shift in perception. In contrast to anthropomorphic allegories, in which a nation is imagined as a conscious actor capable of rational decisions, zoomorphic representations displace intentionality in favor of innate behavior. Political actions are no longer framed as reasoned choices, as in the case of anthropomorphic imagery, but as the inevitable outcomes of inherent traits. This shift is conceptually powerful. Cultural interpretations of animals tend to assume that their characteristics are fixed and innate. These meanings, though socially constructed, are deeply internalized: the fox is sly, the lion is courageous, the hare is timid—by their nature. Once these animal traits are metaphorically projected onto countries or nations, they begin to function as markers of unchangeable reality. A nation depicted as a fox is not choosing to be sly in a particular situation; it is cunning and sly by nature, that is, always. The metaphor short-circuits the interpretive process by naturalizing its premise.

Moreover, this false logic leads to further blurring of the underlying metaphorical transfer, making it almost invisible. Initially, humans observe specific animal behaviors and project onto them particular human traits, and over time, these projected qualities become strongly associated with the animal itself—the cultural archetypes in which animals personify originally human traits (Guthrie, 1993; Jung, 1968). These projected qualities become strongly associated with the animal through repetition in fables, folklore, idioms, and art. When such an animal is later used in metaphor or visual representation, it serves as a shorthand for conveying complex human characteristics or moral judgments, as these traits are then projected back from animals onto people, and in our case, entire political entities. Yet, readers rarely unpack this chain of associations; instead, the metaphor appears self-evident and immutable. At this point, the original process of attribution, the symbolic transfer of meaning from human to animal and only then back, is largely put aside and forgotten. The trait is perceived not as a cultural construction, but as a natural quality of the animal. Thus, the metaphor solidifies into a seemingly self-evident symbol, masking the layered cultural processes that originally shaped its meaning (Leerssen, 2007; 2016). Whereas anthropomorphic depictions invite moral interpretation that nations act rightly or wrongly, with rational intent, zoomorphic depictions deny such agency. The animalized Other becomes an object of instinct, unable to change, decide otherwise, or improve. It is simply what it is. In this symbolic bestiary, the reader or viewer is invited to judge these entities on the basis of their ‘natural’ behavior.

This framework also supports a visual and ideological hierarchy that refers us to the ‘law of the jungle’ and the idea of ‘survival of the fittest’. The nation that is creating such a bestiary map to navigate the world often reserves for itself a unique status. While other countries are represented as animals, primitive, instinct-driven, with innate traits, the Self (the own nation) is usually anthropomorphized, occupying a higher evolutionary plane. In the symbolic order of the animal kingdom, this amounts to positioning oneself as the apex species or even the ‘crown of creation’. Such a move implicitly legitimizes political superiority, civilizational hierarchy, and colonial ambition (Smith, 1991). Consequently, the inherent characteristics and behavioral traits attributed to animals, alongside the fixed hierarchies of the food chain, form the conceptual foundation of the zoomorphic metaphor. When political entities are imagined within an animal kingdom framework, they are not simply stylized for emotional effect; they are inscribed with symbolic meanings that imply a natural order. These associations are deeply ideological and suggest that nations behave in accordance with their ‘species traits’, that are immutable and predetermined (Leerssen, 2007; 2016).

A closer examination of zoomorphic representations reveals a multi-tiered symbolic hierarchy. At the top of this constructed food chain is the anthropomorphic figure, a human, alongside noble or sacred animals, such as a lion or an eagle. These figures may originate in heraldic traditions or in culturally revered mythological and folklore symbolism. Whether imagined as humans or as regal predators, they embody the highest moral and general virtues: courage, strength, nobility, wisdom, and honor. This category typically includes the nation producing the image (i.e., the self-image), as well as friendly or allied countries that reinforce shared values and political alignment.

Below this superior league lies a second category: passive and domesticated animals, livestock. These are typically represented by cows, goats, sheep, donkeys, camels, or other non-threatening animals associated with docility and utility. Within the context of geopolitical metaphor, these animals represent colonized territories, satellite states, or nations seen as economically or politically subordinate. They are imagined as resources or as prey to be consumed, territories to be managed, or peoples ‘to be civilized’ (Bassett, 1994). Their inclusion reflects an imperial worldview in which the power dynamic is not one of antagonism but of paternalism, ownership and extraction. Zoomorphic representation of colonized territories functioned as an ideological device to naturalize colonial domination, recasting it not as the violent subjugation of human societies but as the benign and natural management of passive, productive resources. The economic exploitation of these territories—whether mineral, agricultural, or human—was reframed as the harmless harvesting of a natural yield (such as milking or shearing), thereby concealing its extractive and destructive reality. Importantly, these animals were not viewed as actors in their own right, but as objects of interest and value to colonial powers. Within this framework, the colonial power was not portrayed as a violent aggressor but rather as a benevolent herdsman, tending to its flock and extracting its utility for a greater good, namely the colonial economy and the so-called ‘civilizing mission’. This discourse ultimately reinforced a supposed natural order in which the strong dominated the weak.

The third category comprises harmful and dangerous animals: pests, invasive species, and predatory threats. These creatures are depicted in a markedly negative light, as dangerous, ugly, parasitic, or monstrous. Unlike noble predators, which are granted a certain respect even in enmity, these representations are designed to provoke disgust, fear, and moral condemnation. Depending on the level of perceived threat, these animals might range from vermin to more formidable carnivores or reptiles. In extreme cases, the enemy is portrayed as a grotesque hybrid or mythological beast, transcending natural taxonomy to become a symbol of pure chaos or diabolical evil. This category is particularly significant for our analysis, as it visualizes the enemy not merely as an opponent, but as a fundamental danger to the moral and political order (Lakoff, 1991). Zoomorphic metaphors in this vein do not allow for the possibility of redemption, negotiation, or coexistence. The enemy is not a misguided rational actor but an inherently malevolent force, a predatory presence that must be contained, controlled, or eliminated. This framework serves not only to dehumanize the adversary but also to justify aggressive or even violent responses as forms of natural self-defense (Haslam, 2006).

In contrast to the noble animals and domesticated ones, the depiction of enemies in zoomorphic metaphors typically draws upon wild, exotic, or even fantastical creatures. This choice serves a rhetorical purpose—to emphasize the radical ‘otherness’ of the enemy (Welch, 2013). The less familiar a foreign state or nation appears (whether in terms of language, traditions, beliefs, appearance, or way of life) the more unusual the animal used to represent them. Among the most common zoomorphic forms used to signify hostile entities are noxious pests (rats, cockroaches, or mosquitoes), dangerous predators (crocodiles, lions, kites, snakes, or sharks), and exotic (elephants, monkeys, exotic birds) or fantastical animals (dragons, giant octopuses, or demonic beings). These choices of bestial symbol serve to distance the enemy culturally and to underline their position as existential threats. Pests signify contamination, infestation, and a hidden yet persistent threat. Predators convey overt aggression, dominance, and the capacity for violence. Exotic animals emphasize cultural and geographical distance, while fantastical creatures evoke the idea of an enemy so fundamentally alien as to defy comprehension, an embodiment of the abnormal or monstrous. Taken together, these characteristics form a spectrum ranging from the relatively harmless ‘outsider’ to the utterly alien and dangerous enemy.

At the farthest end of this symbolic spectrum lies the figure of the monster or bestial creature, an embodiment of the enemy’s total moral, cultural, and existential estrangement, their perceived inherent threat. This form of representation functions as a mechanism of demonization, in which the Other is no longer just foreign or hostile, but fundamentally unnatural and dangerous (Cohen, 1996). Whether the threat attributed to this Other is real or constructed, the rhetorical logic remains consistent: the more unknowable and uncontrollable the creature is, the more urgent and serious the threat is considered to be. Whereas exotic or fantastic animals are threatening primarily due to their strangeness and unpredictability (the unsettling element of the unknown), predatory and monstrous figures are defined by overt markers of aggression, malice, and insatiable violence. The wild beast thus becomes a powerful metaphor for unrelenting brutality, as a being governed not by reason, but by instinctual cruelty and destructive drive. Unlike human adversaries, such creatures cannot be reasoned through moral appeals and negotiations or made to retreat in the face of punitive justice. Within such a symbolic framework, the available responses to the enemy are starkly limited. Only two viable strategies emerge in response to such a threat: it can only be subdued (domination) or destroyed (extermination). This logic naturalizes violence against ‘bestial others’ by presenting it as not only justified, but necessary for self-preservation. As such, the monster motif serves a dual function: it dehumanizes and demonizes the adversary while simultaneously legitimizing extreme forms of aggression, a total war (Asma, 2009; Mittman, 2012).

Returning to the previously outlined hierarchy of the animal kingdom metaphor—noble or virtuous animals for self-representation and allies, domesticated animals for colonies and subordinates, and wild or predatory beasts for enemies—it is crucial to emphasize that predation possesses a dual symbolic potential. On one side, it may depict the enemy as a bloodthirsty and irrational monster, driven by primal and uncontrollable instincts. On the other, it can convey nobility, autonomy, and natural authority, framing the predator as a majestic and powerful being that asserts dominance over weaker rivals as part of a legitimate natural order. This ambiguity becomes particularly pronounced in the realm of visual satire, especially in political cartoons. When the state portrays itself as a noble predator, such aggression is framed as a rational and natural assertion of strength, even as ‘a civilizing force’. However, when Others are cast as dangerous predators or even monstrous beasts, their violence is stripped of legitimacy and presented as arbitrary, irrational and excessive. Thus, the same metaphor of predation can either normalize violence or demonize it, depending on how it is visually and contextually framed.

This leads us to the important point that zoomorphic metaphors in caricature often retain a degree of internal ambivalence, semantic elasticity, and, at times, reversibility. As international alliances shift and the geopolitical balance of power transforms, the symbolic bestiary also adapts. The same creature may be recontextualized to convey different meanings over time (the strength of a lion may become savagery; the cunning fox may be re-coded as wise or vice versa) depending on the changing rhetorical needs of the political moment. Consequently, it is not uncommon for a single nation to be associated with multiple animal representations simultaneously (Leerssen, 2007; Smith, 1991). A dominant metaphor might be supported by subsidiary images that emphasize different traits. Such multiplicity also reflects the inherent contradictions within national self-images, which often seek to reconcile ideals of benevolence and peacefulness with assertions of strength or military prowess that hardly could be embodied in a single image.³ This semiotic plurality enhances the expressive potential of political caricature, allowing it to respond flexibly to evolving geopolitical contexts while preserving a sense of continuity through recognizable symbolic archetypes. We will encounter this multiplicity of images, as well as the duality of predation, when I examine specific images of the British Empire, China, and Japan through the lens of Russian satirical magazines at the turn of the 20th century.

In the following section, I turn my attention to a particularly revealing subset of these representations: the depiction of monstrous figures in political cartoons. These images often fuse elements of the terrifying and the absurd, constructing enemies who are simultaneously threatening and ridiculous. I will examine how such visual strategies amplify the emotional impact of caricature, turning monstrosity into a tool not only of demonization but also of ridicule, thereby reinforcing narratives of moral superiority while dispelling fear through humor.

The Beast and the Taming of the Beast: Humor and Horror in Political Satire

Political cartoons function as a powerful form of visual rhetoric that fuses artistic expression with political critique (Greenberg, 2002; Medhurst and DeSousa, 1981). Far from being mere illustrations or amusement, these images operate at the intersection of visual art, ideological commentary, and public sentiment. Satire in cartoon form condenses complex political realities into striking, memorable visual metaphors that resonate across a wide audience. By employing visual exaggeration, irony, and symbolic shorthand, political cartoons can distill multifaceted international dynamics into a single compelling frame. Crucially, they do not simply reflect political events; they actively participate in their interpretation and narration (Medhurst and DeSousa, 1981). Cartoons shape how political actors and policies are perceived, assigning moral valences and emotional tones to geopolitical dynamics. They serve as both mirrors and amplifiers of public opinion, transforming anxiety, frustration, or ambitions and expectations into accessible imagery. Political cartoons contribute to the construction of enduring narratives about power, legitimacy, and threat and as such, they are not neutral observers but cultural instruments that participate in the performance of political meaning (El Refaie, 2009). In doing so, they also play a useful role in shaping the formation of national identity and the delineation of the Self and the Other (Howarth, 2002).

In political discourse, it is decisive to establish the positioning of various forces—not only in the pragmatic sense of geographic location but also within the symbolic framework of the political imagination (Entman, 1993). This mental mapping involves clarifying alliances and adversaries, opportunities and threats. Put simply, it is essential to instill in the mind of the audience a clear sense of where ‘we’ stand, who the Other is, and what the nature of our interaction is.⁴ As previously discussed, political caricatures have the capacity to depict the world map as a bestiary to play out plots of real politics through zoomorphic imagery. In this world’s animal kingdom map, foreign powers are not only spatially situated as in an ordinary map, but also morally categorized through bestial imagery; nations are thus imagined not merely as political entities but as moral actors, encoded through animal symbolism that serves as a visual shorthand for perceived virtues or vices.

For the purposes of this study, particular attention is given to the figure of the geopolitical enemy, frequently depicted as a monstrous or predatory beast in political satire. These representations signal radical otherness, depicting figures as wholly alien, fundamentally ‘not like us’. The use of bestial imagery in this context extends beyond a mere insult or an attempt to ridicule; it constitutes a deeper ideological gesture that dehumanizes the enemy and reinforces their portrayal as morally corrupt, culturally incompatible, and existentially dangerous. The trope of the beast serves as an indicator of a wide range of imperial and national anxieties, from fears of foreign invasion and the loss of geopolitical control, to concerns about foreign cultural influences and geopolitical instability. By projecting these anxieties onto the bodies of pests, predators, or monsters—creatures seen as wild, untamable, and fundamentally incompatible with the civilized order—political caricature vividly illustrates the threat of the Other. The more threatening and menacing the zoomorphic image, the further removed the enemy is placed from the imagined moral and cultural community of ‘us’.

Before turning to a detailed analysis of specific caricatures and zoomorphic images of the monstrous Other in late imperial Russia, it is essential to examine the emotional dynamics within such symbolic images, particularly the complex entanglement of horror and humor. Political cartoons are affectively charged media. They are designed to provoke immediate reactions from the viewer, combining visual brevity with emotional intensity (Barry, 1997; Greenberg, 2002). While the genre is conventionally associated with humor, the reaction of amusement could be layered atop a deeper and more complex affective trajectory, especially when the central figure is something ugly, monstrous, and threatening. In caricatures that depict enemies as bestial or monstrous figures, the initial emotional provocation is not amusement but horror: fear, revulsion, and a sense of existential alarm and danger (Cohen, 1996). These images trigger what might be described as an emotional chain reaction or ‘emotional roller coaster’: from fear and shock to ridicule and cathartic laughter. This affective strategy primes the viewer to perceive the subject of caricature first as fundamentally dangerous and incompatible with the established order of things. By evoking fear, caricature creates an emotional framework through which geopolitical threats are interpreted. The monstrous enemy becomes not merely a political rival but an existential menace and a terrifying threat.

Visually, horror in zoomorphic images is generated through a set of established techniques. Unlike depictions of ordinary animals, which may adhere to recognizable forms, monstrous representations rely on deliberate exaggeration and the distortion of natural anatomy, replacing it with a fictional form (Gombrich, 1963; Harpham, 1982). Exaggerated size connotes overwhelming power or encroaching dominance. Sharp teeth, large claws, body deformations, an ugly demonic grin, multiple heads or limbs, and other unnatural features signal aggression, unpredictability, and a break with the natural order. The unnatural bodily configurations destabilize the boundaries between the normal and the abnormal, amplifying the viewer’s sense of dread and disgust, emotions deeply rooted in biological and cultural codes of threat recognition (Kristeva, 1982). Such images reflect broader societal anxieties about external threats. In particular, they reflect deep-seated fears of being overwhelmed or ‘devoured’ by a threatening Other, or, to put it in a political context, of being destabilized, defeated, or losing national sovereignty. Evoked horror thus serves not only to dehumanize the enemy, but also to dramatize and legitimize defensive or aggressive political responses by making the threat appear irrational, morally corrupt, and uncontrollable, and therefore unworthy of diplomatic negotiation. In doing so, visual satire transforms abstract political fears into tangible, monstrous forms that demand proactive measures to eliminate the threat.

The deployment of horror in political caricature thus serves to delineate strict moral boundaries between ‘us’ and ‘them’. Through the portrayal of foreign adversaries as bestial or monstrous, caricature establishes a visual and affective logic that positions the enemy as not only threatening but fundamentally incompatible with the values of the ‘civilized’ in-group. The monstrous Other becomes an embodiment of chaos in stark contrast to the presumed order, rationality, and virtue of the self-identified nation. Horror thus becomes a tool of ideological clarity: the audience is emotionally primed to accept, or even demand, foreign policy responses that treat the adversary as beyond dialogue or diplomacy. Whether through military force or cultural rejection, the monstrous enemy is presented as a threat that must be neutralized, not understood. In this way, horror and disgust operate not only as emotional provocation but as moral justification, an affective foundation upon which political judgments are built.

However, political cartoons are not designed to paralyze the viewer with terror or elicit a desire to flee. Instead, the horrific image of the monster is overlaid with subsequent emotional layers—most notably, amusement, followed by a sense of relief (Harpham, 2006). While horror in political caricature establishes the enemy as a monstrous and existential threat, this intense emotion is often counterbalanced by a second, equally powerful affective move: the comic deflation of the beast into a figure of farce. This transformation from terrifying to laughable functions to symbolically disarm the threat and reassert narrative control. The same grotesque features that once evoked fear (exaggerated size, claws, multiple limbs) are reframed and recontextualized in absurd and ridiculous scenarios. The beast becomes a buffoon: grotesque not in the sense of horror, but of humiliation (Morreall, 2009). This is a brilliantly choreographed chain reaction of triggers: first readers feel discomfort, fear, revulsion; then the resulting bubble of tension explodes with their laughter triggered by the expressive means of the cartoon, and the cathartic relief from culmination follows (Bakhtin, 1984).

This shift can be productively read through Mikhail Bakhtin’s theory of the grotesque and the carnivalesque. In Bakhtin’s conception, grotesque realism celebrates the degradation of the mighty and the undoing of established hierarchies (‘uncrowning’) through parody and laughter (Bakhtin, 1984). The carnivalesque moment in caricature subverts terror into ridicule, allowing audiences to confront and subdue the fearful Other through humor. Humor becomes a political instrument and a strategic political weapon, transforming the dangerous enemy into a clownish, powerless creature, a reversal that symbolically reestablishes the power of the viewing nation, returning to it the feeling of its own superiority over others. In this way, ridicule, or the symbolic process of ‘the taming of the beast’, offers emotional resolution: horror turns into derision, threat into powerlessness. The monstrous Other is not simply vanquished; it is humiliated, made small, pathetic, and safely absurd. Humor thus becomes not a distraction from horror, but its strategic sublimation.

Political caricature here operates as a paradoxical emotional space, where horror and humor coexist in a complex dialectic. These images function simultaneously as expressions of fear and instruments of amusement, enabling viewers to confront political anxieties in ways that are affectively manageable. The monstrous caricature of the enemy initially evokes dread, yet this horror is quickly smoothed over by ridicule. This emotional contradiction is not accidental but constitutive of caricature’s political function. This dual register allows viewers to externalize their fears, projecting political and social anxiety onto a visible Other, while also reaffirming a sense of superiority and control through mockery. As Susan Sontag and Julia Kristeva have noted in different contexts, the grotesque or abject often triggers both repulsion and fascination, creating a space where boundaries are clarified by being transgressed (Kristeva, 1982; Sontag, 1966). In this case, fear justifies vigilance, while humor reestablishes dominance. The oscillation between horror and humor provides a form of political narrative: ‘yes, there is a threat, but we will eliminate it’. It stabilizes the emotional experience of the audience, particularly in moments of geopolitical uncertainty or crisis, by converting overwhelming threats into digestible satire. Caricature thus becomes both a mirror of collective anxieties and a tool for their symbolic overcoming.

It is crucial to emphasize that constructing the image of the Other in political caricature inherently entails a parallel (though often implicit) construction of the image of the Self (Neumann, 1999; Pickering 2001). Even in cases where the national ‘we’ is not visually represented in the caricature it remains the invisible reference point against which the monstrous Other is defined. This dialectical process lies at the heart of visual satire dealing with international relations. In caricature, the act of portraying foreign competitive powers as monstrous or bestial does more than vilify an external adversary, as it simultaneously delineates the contours of own national identity, reaffirming its proclaimed values and beliefs about itself. Cartoons depicting the Other as a monster answer the question ‘Who are we?’ by clearly illustrating ‘Who we are not’, and, more importantly, ‘Who we should not become’. This oppositional logic is important to the ideological function of caricature. The foreign Other is cast as the embodiment of irrationality, chaos, barbarism, or moral decay—an entity that threatens not just national interests but the cultural and ethical order upon which the imagined national community rests. By contrast, the home nation is implicitly defined as rational, civilized, and ethically superior. The caricature thus stages a visual drama in which geopolitical conflict is reframed as a moral narrative: a contest between good and evil, order and disorder, civilization and savagery.

Such representational strategies resonate with what Stuart Hall (1996) identifies as the discursive construction of identity through difference: ‘we’ can only know who we are by knowing who we are not. Through the grotesque distortions of the beastly Other, the Self is purified, stabilized, and made morally legible. In this way, the caricature performs a double ideological task by discrediting the foreign adversary while reaffirming the imagined virtue and coherence of the national community. These binaries function ideologically to justify specific political postures, particularly in moments of international crisis or domestic uncertainty. When the Other is presented as a monstrous beast, an existential threat rather than a diplomatic counterpart, the range of legitimate responses is significantly narrowed. Viewers are primed not for negotiation or understanding, but for suspicion, containment, or even aggression. This emotional simplification of international complexity enables political discourse to operate on a symbolic register, where policy becomes a matter of defending ‘us’ from ‘them’. Thus, caricature becomes a symbolic battleground where national identity is not merely reflected but actively produced and policed.

Throughout this analysis, I have explored the dual affective and ideological functions of satirical political caricature, particularly its deployment of horror and humor in the depiction of foreign Others as grotesque zoomorphic images of monstrous beasts. These caricatures are far from neutral or merely amusing images; rather, they function as powerful mechanisms for coping with geopolitical anxieties, symbolically managing threat, and shaping collective perception. Horror and humor work together in these images not as contradictions but as complementary emotional registers: first outlining and externalizing fear and then transforming it into ridicule. Horror primes the audience for responses rooted in containment, eradication, or rejection, framing foreign policy decisions in emotional terms that render military aggression justifiable. Humor, by contrast, neutralizes the initially aroused fear, asserts control, and restores a symbolic sense of national superiority. The same monstrous figure that terrifies can be ‘tamed’ through parody, reduced to absurdity and made laughable. Through this emotional modulation, cartoons stabilize the viewer’s experience of geopolitical uncertainty, offering both catharsis and clarity.

Taken together, horror and humor in caricature serve a political purpose. They convert complex international realities into emotionally resonant and morally legible binaries: good versus evil, order versus chaos, us versus them. This simplification is a deliberate ideological move. As I have argued, caricature is an active agent in the symbolic construction of national identity. By defining the Other as bestial and incompatible with civilization, caricature implicitly defines the Self as civilized and morally justified. In this way, political satire, often perceived as marginal or purely comic, becomes embedded within the broader cultural machinery of nation-building and foreign policy legitimization. Caricature thus functions on multiple levels. It is a site of emotional catharsis, a tool of ideological alignment, and a symbolic battleground for national identity—it plays a crucial role in shaping how nations imagine themselves and the Others, especially in moments of perceived crisis.

The Dangerous Other: Zoomorphic Images of Enemies in Russian Caricature (1890–1905)

The British Empire: The Cowardly Lion & The Greedy Octopus

During the late 19th and early 20th centuries, the British Empire stood at the apex of its global power, sustained by an extensive trade network that spanned continents. Much of its prosperity was dependent on the uninterrupted flow of goods such as cotton, tea, coffee, and various other commodities from its colonies. The colonies not only supplied raw materials for British industries but also served as captive markets for the empire’s manufactured exports, creating a self-reinforcing cycle of economic dependence and imperial control (Gallagher, 1953).⁵ This global hegemony was secured by the formidable British Royal Navy, which constituted the world’s most powerful maritime force at the time. The navy protected trade routes, enforced colonial order, and projected British influence across the globe. The phrase ‘Britannia rules the waves’ (Lambert, 2007) was more than a patriotic slogan; it encapsulated Britain’s naval supremacy and its perceived entitlement to dominate the seas.

Beyond military and economic prowess, Britain also functioned as a central diplomatic actor, shaping the balance of power in Europe and influencing global politics. It positioned itself as both a peacekeeper and a power broker, engaging in alliance-making and conflict mediation to maintain the continental status quo (Morris, 1998; Pedersen, 2011).⁶ At the same time, the cultural dimension of British imperialism was aggressively pursued through the global export of its language, legal traditions, educational institutions, and social norms, often imposed with little to no regard for local traditions and frequently enforced through coercive means (Said, 1993).

British-Russian relations during this period were defined by enduring strategic rivalry. While both were imperial powers with vast territorial ambitions, their geopolitical interests frequently collided, particularly in Central Asia, the Middle East, and parts of Eastern Europe. This contest for influence, popularly referred to as ‘The Great Game’ (Yapp, 2001), shaped diplomatic tensions and fueled mutual suspicion. Although Russia and Britain had a long history of diplomatic engagement, their interactions were often underpinned by antagonism and the perception of the other as a threatening imperial adversary. Britain’s dominance over India and its perceived appetites toward Afghanistan, Persia and China brought it into direct ideological conflict with Russia. This rivalry was not merely a contest over land but also a broader cultural and civilizational confrontation, wherein each power saw itself as the guardian of order against a threatening adversary.

Within the Russian press, this adversarial dynamic between the Russian and British Empires was embodied in easily recognizable visual tropes. The British Empire was initially depicted through well-established auto-stereotype figures such as the heraldic lion or John Bull, a stout bulldog-like character embodying British tenacity and self-confidence (Taylor, 2021). However, as tensions between empires intensified, particularly in the competition for influence across the East, these traditional images began to shift. One of the first rhetorical strategies was the ridicule and degradation of the lion, a long-standing emblem of British imperial strength. While inherently associated with power, nobility, and majesty, the lion was nonetheless a predator, a symbol already tinged with menace. Russian caricaturists began to subvert this noble image by placing the lion in absurd or humiliating situations that undermined its noble status. It was portrayed as cowardly, easily defeated by smaller opponents, often exaggeratedly small—represented, for example, as a swarm of bees, an image of the periodically rebellious colonies (‘The Torments of the Lion’, 1900). Another recurring motif depicted the lion in acts of irrational greed: clutching world maps (Figure 1) or devouring colonies depicted as helpless livestock. These images emphasized a grotesque appetite for domination, reconfiguring the lion from a noble ruler to a gluttonous imperial beast.

Figure 1

‘The Appetite of the British Lion’. The Alarm Clock [Будильник], 1890. Reproduced with the permission of the National Library of Russia.

This visual theme of excessive greed prompted Russian artists to seek a new, more grotesque symbol; one that would capture the perceived essence of British imperialism with greater ideological force. The figure they arrived at was strikingly unconventional within the Russian cultural canon: the octopus. Though largely absent from traditional Russian folklore, the octopus proved symbolically resonant and visually adaptable. This zoomorphic image carried multiple layers of meaning: its physical form, with long, grasping tentacles, metaphorically conveyed invasive power, strategic entanglement, and an omnipresent threat hidden beneath the surface of the water. The octopus image came to embody oppressive control, secretive manipulation, and the insidious spread of influence, qualities attributed to the British Empire by Russian commentators and illustrators. And it was, of course, an obvious reference in favor of Britain as ruler of the seas. The octopus’s aquatic nature resonated with Britain’s dominance at sea but subverted the romantic imagery of naval heroism by reimagining it as something monstrous, sinister, and predatory—the British Empire was presented as a usurper rather than a guardian of global trade routes.

The British octopus typically appeared with its tentacles spread across maps, entangling various colonies and key trade routes (Figure 2). The horror of its depiction lies in its colossality. A giant octopus, a creature capable of surrounding the entire globe, embodies a sinister form of omnipresence. Its multiple, nimble tentacles moved unseen in the depths, their direction and reach impossible to predict—yet always present, relentlessly grasping for more, driven by insatiable greed. The image also tapped into deep-seated cultural thalassophobia, evoking humanity’s ancient fear of the sea and its hidden monsters, and the unsettling question of what lay beneath the surface. This aura of mystery, unknown, secrecy, and elusiveness reinforced perceptions of the British Empire as a moral hypocrite: publicly committed to its ‘civilizing mission’ while privately pursuing cynical and self-serving objectives. Unlike the dignified lion, the octopus was perfectly suited to convey this perception and critique. It embodied qualities such as cunning, secrecy, and amorality, traits seen as emblematic of British diplomacy for the Russian reader.

Figure 2

‘“Civilization” in the English Style’. The Alarm Clock [Будильник], 1900. Reproduced with the permission of the National Library of Russia.

This portrayal also projected the anxieties of the Russian Empire, a similarly expansive and competitive power. By portraying the British Empire as an overextended, greedy entity, Russian caricaturists subtly critiqued the very logic of imperial expansionism, while ignoring the fact that the Russian Empire itself was a similarly sprawling structure.⁷ The difference was that the claims of the one’s own country were perceived as righteous, while the ambitions of the British Empire were introduced into the narrative as unjustified and exaggerated. The caricature defused imperial anxiety caused by this rivalry by casting the enemy as grotesque and even laughable. Some depictions made the octopus’s eyes goggle in confusion, or rendered its face anthropomorphic, with a sly grin (‘Far, Far Away Beyond the Yellow Sea. Get Lost, Geisha!’, 1904). These representations resonated with broader currents of anti-British sentiment in Russian political discourse, as Britain was often depicted not only as a rival but as a moral hypocrite, a depiction that corresponded to the image of a sea monster hiding behind a human face. The British octopus was not simply depicted as powerful, but as grotesque, gluttonous, and lacking in principle. Its imperial ventures were framed not as a reflection of strength or righteousness, but as the pathological outcome of insatiable greed and manipulative intent. Through mockery, Russian illustrators asserted a moral and cultural superiority over their rival, presenting the British Empire as an empire of deceit and hypocrisy masquerading under the banner of civilization.

Through this zoomorphic satire, the British octopus became a potent symbol of a predatory empire that sought to dominate the globe, suffocating other nations under the guise of progress. The satire did not merely elicit amusement; it offered a complex commentary on imperialism, international competition, and the uneasy mirror of empires that, despite their mutual antagonism, often acted in disturbingly similar ways.

Japan: The Doppelgänger Monkey

If the British octopus embodied the threat of global overreach, Japan represented another unsettling phenomenon and source of unease for the Russian Empire: the rise of an Asian power as a new player on the world political scene. The period in question marked a profound transformation for Japan, which was emerging from centuries of self-imposed isolation. This era witnessed Japan’s rapid ascent as a political, military, and industrial power within the Asian region, positioning it as a formidable rival not only to neighboring states such as China and Russia but also to the Western colonial powers (Paine, 2017). The newly established Japanese government embarked on a policy of accelerated modernization and Westernization, motivated by a desire to strengthen the nation and avoid the fate that had befallen China under foreign domination. Industrial development proceeded swiftly: factories, railroads, and modern infrastructure sprang up across the country. The state actively encouraged technological innovation, importing Western machinery, know-how, and industrial models. Japan’s economic expansion was fueled by the export of silk, textiles, and manufactured goods, while it imported essential raw materials such as coal, iron, and oil to sustain its growing industries. In the military realm, Japan adopted Western techniques and built a modern navy. The newly empowered Imperial Japanese Army and Navy enabled Japan to assert itself as a regional hegemon (Lone, 1994), initiating its imperial ambitions across Asia and positioning itself in direct competition with Western powers.

Japan’s victory in the First Sino-Japanese War (1894–1895) and its increasing assertiveness in East Asia presented an unprecedented challenge to the civilizational hierarchies that had underpinned European imperial ideology (Conrad, 2010), which were built on the idea that Europe, as the most advanced, civilized part of the world, was leading the colonies and other parts of the world along the path of progress.⁸ However, despite the direct conflict of interest, European observers expressed admiration for Japan’s extraordinary pace of modernization and its military prowess, and many intellectuals were fascinated by its cultural sophistication, which even led to a trend of Japonisme in European art (Lambourne, 2005). Japan was often viewed as a unique exception among Asian nations (which were generally seen by Europeans as backward, savage and ignorant); one that had managed to modernize successfully while preserving its sovereignty and uniqueness.

Nonetheless, this admiration was accompanied by deep-seated prejudices and ambivalence. While Japan’s transformation impressed Europe, its imperial ambitions provoked unease among both the United States and European powers including the Russian Empire (Conrad, 2010). Japan’s desire for resources and territorial expansion, particularly in China and Korea, posed a direct challenge to Western interests in the region. For Russia, this challenge became acutely personal during the buildup to the Russo-Japanese War (1904–1905). The looming conflict between Japan and Russia over influence in Manchuria and Korea was already visible on the horizon, ultimately culminating in the war (Connaughton, 2003). As a new and unfamiliar actor on the geopolitical map, one that needed to be introduced and explained to the public, Japan—a dark horse that came out seemingly of nowhere—thus occupied an ambiguous place in the Russian imagination and evoked complex and often contradictory perceptions.

The image of Japan in Russian satirical and visual media underwent a series of transformations as artists struggled to find a fitting representation for this rapidly evolving and unfamiliar nation. First, the image of Japan was based on the very physical appearance of the Japanese: facial features, stature, eye shape, and skin tone were all emphasized and even exaggerated to the point of ugliness to underscore the perceived otherness of Japanese people (‘The Sino-Japanese Brawl’, 1894). It was a borderline image that, although anthropomorphic, deformed the appearance of the depicted subject to the point where it resembled a small, ugly evil spirit or even a demon. Within zoomorphic imagery, Japan was sometimes depicted a small insect (‘The Lion and the Gnat’, 1895) to symbolize the country’s relatively modest territorial size and, in an attempt to emphasize the inequality between Japan and the Russian Empire, the European giant. Japan was also represented as a sea creature such as the sea toad, shark, or crab (‘Japanese Lobsters for Dinner’, 1904; ‘The Asian Sea Frog’, 1904), to highlight its maritime character. Another popular image was of a small dog (Figure 3), usually at the foot of the British Empire or Europe—again a visual attack on the small size of the country and suggesting that Japan was obediently following the orders of European powers.

Figure 3

‘A Conversation Between a British Bulldog and a Japanese Puppy’. The Jester [Шут], 1904. Reproduced with the permission of the National Library of Russia.

However, as geopolitical tensions between Russia and Japan escalated, these images were deemed insufficient to convey the perceived threat and alienation. Insects, dogs and toads lacked the symbolic weight to inspire fear of the enemy. The monstrous image of Japan gradually emerged, rooted in a trait that perhaps unsettled Russian observers the most: the Japanese capacity for imitation, adaptation, and mimicry. Combined with mockery of Japanese stereotypes, this gave rise to the image of a monkey dressed in human clothing (‘The Fruits of Civilization’, 1905). At first glance, one might object—after all, a monkey is not monstrous. Animals wearing costumes can even be classified as lovable and harmless images. But this image selected for Japan taps into an older, more unsettling archetype: the doppelgänger.⁹ It represents something disturbingly close to the self, yet unmistakably different; uncannily familiar, but fundamentally alien. The monkey imitator becomes a grotesque parody of humanity, triggering discomfort not through overt obvious monstrosity, but through a sense of unnatural resemblance.

Once again, the choice of the monkey as a zoomorphic image of Japan was not random. Monkeys represented creatures that could imitate but never originate, repeat and echo but never understand or formulate their own ideas. When applied to the Japanese, this trope implied a fundamental incapacity for authenticity: Japan’s modernization was seen not as a genuine transformation, but as a kind of theatrical imitation of Western powers in a desperate attempt to be on the same level as them. This representation carried a deep ambivalence between the horrific and the hilarious. On the one hand, the monkey as a doppelgänger was deeply threatening. Because monkeys can imitate, they can infiltrate; because they resemble humans, they destabilize the boundaries of identity. In this sense, the Japanese monkey figure embodied Russia’s fear of being defeated by a rival newcomer on the world stage—by someone who mimicked all outward appearances but inwardly remained an a dangerous Other.

On the other hand, this zoomorphic image, while rooted in fear, was simultaneously defused through ridicule. Japanese soldiers were frequently depicted as absurd, diminutive apes awkwardly clad in ill-fitting Western-style uniforms (Figure 4). More broadly, Japanese people were caricatured as ridiculous, hairy monkeys dressed in European attire, such as tuxedos, clumsily attempting to replicate Western etiquette but doomed to fail and make fools of themselves, and reveal themselves as frauds and impostors. These images aimed to provoke amusement, suggesting that Japan’s ambitions were risible and destined to fail. The doppelgänger monkey was mocked for its very imitative abilities: no matter how much it tried to replicate ‘civilized’ behaviors, it could never reach the same level of sophistication and intellect. It became a figure of derision, exposed as a mindless mimic who could never truly rival ‘us’. In this way, the image simultaneously acknowledged Japan as a growing geopolitical and cultural presence while containing that threat through the medium of humor. The underlying message reinforced a fixed hierarchy: ‘we’ (Russia and Europe) as the original, intelligent, and authentic beings, remain superior and unthreatened by those who can only imitate but never equal or surpass ‘us’.

Figure 4

‘Chief “Macaque” of the Japanese Navy’. The Alarm Clock [Будильник], 1904. Reproduced with the permission of the National Library of Russia.

China: The Last Breath of a Diabolical Dragon

With the eastward expansion of the geopolitical map, China, like Japan, emerged as a new and unfamiliar land in the eyes of the Russian public. In a historical context, at the turn of the 20th century, China was experiencing a significant decline. Politically weakened and plagued by internal instability, the country had become highly vulnerable to foreign influence and economic exploitation. This vulnerability was aggravated by China’s defeats in the Opium Wars (1839–1842 and 1856–1860) against Britain, which led to the forced opening of Chinese ports to foreign trade and a loss of economic sovereignty (Lovell, 2011). By this time, China had been partitioned into spheres of influence by various European powers, including Britain, France, Germany, and Russia. To Russian observers, China appeared to be a crumbling, archaic state: backward, stagnant, and incapable of modern governance. They often dismissed Chinese traditions and institutions as outdated obstacles to progress, promoting instead the imposition of Western legal systems, educational models, and cultural norms.

For the Russian Empire, as for its Western counterparts, China was above all a territory of immense economic value. It was regarded as a storehouse of natural resources, such as coal, iron, and other raw materials essential to industrial development, as well as a source of highly desired luxury goods, including tea, silk, and porcelain. This material wealth placed China firmly within the imperial imagination as a space to be extracted and controlled. Yet alongside this economic calculus, the vast territorial expanse, long imperial history, and deeply rooted cultural traditions could not be overlooked, evoking both admiration and unease. To the Russian public, China appeared as an ancient and mysterious force, simultaneously impressive and intimidating, and marked by profound otherness and unpredictability (Schimmelpenninck van der Oye, 2010). This dual perception of China as both a desirable resource frontier and a culturally alien power, required mediation through familiar interpretive frameworks. Visual and print media became essential tools for translating this geopolitical and cultural encounter to domestic audiences. Journals and political cartoons served not only to inform, but to shape public understanding of China’s place in the international order.

These representations were far from neutral too. Rather, they filtered Chinese reality through a prism of exoticism and ideological projection. Chinese society and governance were often depicted as stagnant and incapable of reform, reinforcing the contrast between a ‘backward’ East and a ‘progressive’ West (Schimmelpenninck van der Oye, 2010). Within this framework, Russia cast itself as a modernizing power in contrast to China’s perceived civilizational decline. China represented a different kind of threat: not the overconfident manipulator like Britain, nor the unnerving upstart like Japan, but the decadent and declining empire. In Russian visual culture, it became the archetype of a once-great empire now slipping into irrelevance. This characterization was closely tied to the historical reality of the late Qing dynasty, which, weakened by internal unrest, including the Taiping and Boxer Rebellions, and humiliated by successive foreign interventions, represented the risks of resisting modernization.

In Russian caricature, China was often visualized as inert, outdated, and burdened by the weight of its own traditions: an empire paralyzed by ritual and bureaucracy, unable to withstand the pressures of a rapidly changing global order. Such imagery served not merely to deride a geopolitical competitor but also to function as a cautionary allegory. The visual rhetoric warned of the dangers of stagnation and the refusal to reform, implicitly contrasting China’s decline with Russia’s own ambitions for imperial modernization. In this way, caricature offered both critique and reassurance, casting the Russian Empire as a state still capable of progress, unlike its decadent Eastern neighbor. These perceived vulnerabilities made China an ideal subject for ridicule in visual satire.

As with earlier portrayals of Japan, another relative newcomer to the Russian public imagination and a source of both curiosity and anxiety, the initial representations of China were shaped by ethnographic stereotypes. These visualizations drew upon certain physical markers, rendering Chinese figures with exaggerated features such as eyes with epicanthic folds, yellow-hued skin, elongated braided hair, and ornate traditional attire. These attributes, while being descriptive, were often grotesquely amplified to construct an image of the Other that was simultaneously exoticized and threatening. In many caricatures, Chinese people were depicted with inhuman or even demonic traits: elongated, claw-like fingernails,¹⁰ distorted facial expressions suggestive of cunning or malevolence (Figure 5). They were often portrayed as mischievous or sinister, resembling little devils rather than real individuals. This visual language transformed the Chinese figure into a spectral presence—alien, incomprehensible, and morally suspect.

Figure 5

‘From the Life of the “Boxers”’. The Dragonfly [Стрекоза], 1900. Reproduced with permission of the National Library of Russia.

Such depictions fulfilled distinct ideological purposes. By portraying China through exaggerated and grotesque visual codes, Russian visual culture encouraged viewers to perceive the Chinese Other with a complex blend of fascination, suspicion, and disgust. These caricatures allowed audiences to confront cultural alterity while preserving a reassuring sense of psychological and cultural distance. Yet, China was not merely an object of curiosity; it remained a potent threat, a manifestation of the so-called Yellow Peril (Schimmelpenninck van der Oye, 2010) that had not yet been fully contained or neutralized. Accordingly, in the zoomorphic repertoire of Russian caricature, China did not appear as a useful domesticated creature or helpless, passive livestock, as was usually the case with colonies, but rather as something more sinister and untamed—a monstrous figure capable of menace.

In the case of China, a particularly striking symbolic choice emerged: the dragon, a figure deeply rooted in Chinese cultural and mythological tradition. In Chinese symbolism, the dragon (lóng) holds immense and wholly positive connotations, it is a celestial creature with noble traits. It is one of the five sacred animals, signifying imperial authority, cosmic harmony, wisdom, good fortune and prosperity (Rawson, 1984). However, this noble symbol underwent a profound transformation in the Russian imagination, because the original, positive image in the Chinese symbolic system had the exact opposite emotional charge in the Russian tradition. In Christian iconography and Russian folk traditions, the dragon is a fundamentally different creature: a mythological embodiment of evil, chaos, tyranny, destruction, and sin, which must fall by the hand of the hero to restore order (Evans, 2008). The symbolic dissonance between these traditions allowed caricaturists to exploit the dragon’s dual meanings, appropriating a revered Chinese emblem and reconfiguring it as a monstrous, threatening force.

The dragon thus became the dominant metaphor for China in Russian satirical imagery. This symbol was appropriated by Russian caricaturists and stripped of its original connotations. Instead, it was reimagined in the Christian vein as a dangerous and unruly monster to be subdued. Caricatures rendered the dragon as a hybrid of features from Russian and Chinese folk traditions. Bat-like wings, foreign to Chinese iconography, were added, while the elongated, serpentine body and whiskers remained true to Chinese artistic traditions (‘On the Arrival of the Chinese Bismarck in Beijing’, 1899). These distorted combinations fused Russian and Chinese visual vocabularies to construct a composite figure that embodied both familiarity and alienation (or, to put it another way, to construct the familiar evil in the stranger). The result was a visual metaphor that encapsulated China’s perceived vastness, cultural depth, and, simultaneously, its perceived decadence and threat. Notably, the Chinese dragon in Russian caricature was rarely presented as majestic or fearsome. Rather, it was portrayed as sluggish or somnolent, small and weak, weeping, chained (Figure 6); a faded symbol of a once-powerful civilization now mired in decline. At times, the demon-dragon appeared in poses of despair, confusion, or supplication before the more assertive figures of Russia, Britain, or Japan.

Figure 6

‘The Chinese Tragicomedy’. The Dragonfly [Стрекоза], 1900. Reproduced with permission of the National Library of Russia.

This zoomorphic imagery conveyed not only cultural strangeness but also political vulnerability. The Chinese dragon, once a universal sign of sovereignty and imperial greatness, was reduced to a relic, pulled apart by other imperial powers or bound in chains. The caricatures racialized and dehumanized the Chinese Other, reinforcing existing colonial hierarchies. Humor played a critical role in managing anxieties the Russian Empire experienced towards China. By reducing the dragon’s scale, rendering it no larger than a man, or even a toy-like creature, caricaturists drained it of menace. Bound, tamed, or depicted ridiculously, the dragon lost its mythic terror and a primordial evilness, and became a symbol of a humiliated, petty evil spirit. In transforming a symbol of awe into one of pity or mockery, satire served as an emotional release. It helped convince readers that what was happening to China was justified—an empire that failed to keep up with the times would inevitably collapse and be divided by stronger powers. And there was a certain satisfaction in believing that Russia was among those stronger ones.

Conclusion: Caricature, Empire, and the Politics of Humor

The turn of the 20th century was a time of profound geopolitical change, in which the Russian Empire was compelled to position itself within an increasingly competitive and changing global order. Against this backdrop, Russian satirical magazines such as Shut, Budil’nik, and Strekoza played a significant role in shaping public perception of foreign powers. By rendering the abstract dynamics of imperial rivalry into legible and emotionally charged visual metaphors, these publications participated in the broader cultural effort to symbolically master the unfamiliar, unknown, and the threatening. The use of zoomorphic imagery, transforming political adversaries into animals, was a powerful semiotic strategy. The zoomorphic caricatures of Britain, Japan, and China in Russian satirical media between 1890 and 1905 reveal a complex interplay of fear, mockery, and ideological projection. They allowed the Russian educated public to simultaneously acknowledge, process and dismiss the dangers posed by these countries, transforming them into zoomorphic entities within the symbolic order of imperial discourse.

Throughout this study, I have shown how the metaphorical construction of the world as a bestiary enabled a particular form of ideological storytelling. The British octopus was a metaphor for encirclement and overreach—a dark mirror of Russia’s own imperial and territorial ambitions. The Japanese monkey was both mockery and warning, a figure of mimicry whose rise and rapid modernization exposed the fragility of Russia’s own imperial project. The Chinese dragon, meanwhile, embodied the image of a once-mighty but decaying empire, against which Russia could define and justify its supposed “civilizing mission”. Each figure was tailored not only to evoke particular stereotypes—characteristics, assigned to these animals in the cultural code—but also to encode specific fears and fantasies. These representations were not static; rather, they shifted in tone and emphasis depending on Russia’s fluctuating position within the international arena. The caricatures captured moments of triumph and vulnerability, anxiety and self-assertion. They provided a mirror in which the empire could view its adversaries—but just as importantly, they offered a reflection of how Russia wished to see itself: as embattled yet morally superior, threatened yet sovereign, powerful and ambitious yet noble and merciful. The Others were monsters and beasts, while Russia appeared as the hero destined to overcome them.

At the heart of this image of the bestial Other—the monster—was the dynamic interplay between fear and amusement. The bestial Other was often grotesque and terrifying, yet at the same time, absurd or even pitiable. The Chinese dragon, stripped of its traditional grandeur, appeared sleepy, weak, and confused. The British octopus, though sprawling, was shown as too overextended and too greedy to keep its grip on anything. The Japanese monkey, for all its mimicry, remained a pathetic imitation of sophistication. These dual representations served a psychological function. They allowed for the release of public anxiety through humor, providing emotional distance from the real and growing threats of diplomatic encirclement, military conflicts, and the challenges of modernization. They also enabled an implicit moral commentary: if Russia’s enemies were monsters, or beasts, then their ambitions could be dismissed as irrational instincts, their achievements as unnatural imitation and temporary success, their decline as inevitable.

Such caricatures were deeply embedded in broader visual and discursive traditions. They borrowed from European Orientalist iconography, yet in the Russian context, these tropes acquired distinct nuances. Situated geographically between Europe and Asia, the Russian Empire was uniquely invested in maintaining both cultural alignment with the West and ‘a civilizing mission’ toward the East. The animalization of Britain, Japan, and China served to delineate the symbolic boundaries of Russianness, reinforcing a narrative of exceptionalism rooted in a geopolitical mission. It is crucial to recognize that the readers’ reaction produced by these images was not innocent. It was a tool of imperial control, a coping mechanism for the contradictions of an empire facing internal fragility and external pressure. The act of turning nations into animals was not just a way of making sense of the world; it was a way of asserting dominance over it. Through visual satire, Russian print culture offered a symbolic solution to political unease: a bestiary in which every creature had its place, and where even the most threatening adversaries could be miniaturized, mocked, or caged. In so doing, caricature functioned as both spectacle and sedative, an instrument of ideological reassurance.

In tracing the contours of this imperial bestiary, this article has sought to uncover how visual culture participated in the management of geopolitical anxiety of the Russian Empire. The zoomorphic caricatures of the period allowed readers not only to identify foreign threats but to see those threats as manageable, containable, even ridiculous. They thus played a vital role in constructing the cultural imagination of the empire, an imagination in which enemies were monsters, but monsters that could be named, drawn, laughed at, and, above all, placed under control. These caricatures were not only a mirror of the times, but a weapon in the cultural arsenal of the Russian Empire.

Competing interests

The author has no competing interests to declare.