Ephemeral Art as Political Commentary: Russia’s Financial Woes and French Satirical Postcards, 1905–1907

Abstract

This article looks at the ways in which satirical postcards provided political commentary at a pivotal moment in the Franco-Russian alliance. Often overlooked as a medium of communication, turn-of-the-20th-century postcards reflected contemporary cultural values and were an important art form. Here, the focus is on postcards created by Orens and Mille, two of the best caricaturists of the day, as their work offered scathing critiques of Russia’s constant need for financial assistance from its ally and point to the ways in which the public was growing weary of these demands. Closely examining some of their postcards shows how such sentiments were expressed in visual form while also revealing the power of ephemeral materials as historical sources.

In the first years of the 20th century, the Franco-Russian alliance was in trouble. Gone were the heady days of the previous decade when a series of reciprocal state visits saw outpourings of popular support for the unlikely pairing of republican France and autocratic Russia. Now, a disastrous war in Asia, which exposed Russia’s military weakness to its ally, as well as the harsh repressions meted out by Tsarist officials when they faced growing calls for political reform at home, led many in France to question the future of the alliance. Russia’s growing financial difficulties added another element to the volatile situation. The Russian government had borrowed heavily from abroad to finance its plans for industrial and military modernization as well as the construction of the Trans-Siberian railway. What had initially seemed like a good return for the French government, since loans to the Russians practically guaranteed that the diplomatic alliance would continue, and for ordinary French citizens who, in turn, received a good return on their investments, suddenly appeared less certain. More and more, French politicians faced pressures from their constituents about the viability of the massive loans that they helped to broker on Russia’s behalf and questions were raised concerning the ethics of supporting a regime that treated its own population so violently. Suddenly, every aspect of the Franco-Russian alliance was under a microscope.

This discourse was very much reflected in contemporary popular culture. These were years when satirical forms of expression were booming in France. Pre-publication censorship of caricatures in print media was abolished by a new press law that was promulgated in July 1881. The news that such legislation was in the offing had already prompted a flood of new satirical journals to appear: 23 were founded in 1880 and roughly 40 more in 1881 (Goldstein 1989, p. 232). Indeed, new titles sprang up consistently until the First World War, although many of them proved to be short-lived. Not all of these periodicals focused on events from the political realm, however; some preferred to turn their attention to social mores and fashion among other topics. Still, politics was never totally forgotten and the appearance of L’Assiette au Beurre (1901–1912), in particular, marked a turning point for this “weekly of unexcelled graphic quality” and brought a renewed interest in political satire (Goldstein 1989, p. 250). Its contents were notably biting and on occasion drew the ire of the government. For instance, two issues that attacked actions by Russian emperor Nicholas II during the 1905 revolution were not only banned from street sales but seized by French authorities to stop copies from circulating.1 Nor were caricature journals the only way in which satirical images were circulating at this time. The streets of Paris and other urban centers were awash with poster-sized examples hung in such public places as shop windows and newsstands, meaning the images had the potential to draw a collective audience and spark all kinds of public discussions (Goldstein 2015, p. 68).

Not surprisingly, satirical images as both a visual art form and method of offering political commentary also spilled over into the growing postcard market. In France, the first illustrated postcards had been created to commemorate the Tsar’s official visits in 1893 and 1896, respectively. These were followed by several special series issued to celebrate the Paris Exhibition of 1900. A jolt to the market came in 1904 when French manufacturers began to follow the British example and allow for messages to be written on half of the reverse side of a postcard, thereby leaving the entire front free for an illustration. This change only made postcards more attractive to French consumers and collectors alike. By 1910, French postcard manufacturers employed 33,000 people and yearly production reached 123 million postcards (Guyonnet n.d., p. 22; Kyrou 1966, p. 13). At least six clubs for postcard collectors had been founded, and these were joined by more than two dozen specialty magazines, which were established for postcard collectors in the years leading up to the First World War.2 Each of these statistics is indicative of strong French demand for postcards and underscores how their emergence not only affected personal communications but artistic production as well.

As an artistic medium, postcards have some distinct features. To begin with, their small size sets them apart from other forms of graphic art, notably the poster, which was also coming into its own in the same era. Postcards are certainly more portable than posters or most paintings. Yet, they are also not really intended for extended public display. Instead, they often constitute a more private form of consumption and communication. Moreover, postcards are simply not produced using long-lasting materials. Postcards are meant to be ephemeral objects, even if so many dating from the early 20th century have managed to survive and show signs of having been collected and tucked into albums at some point or other. Most picture postcards were mass-produced objects that, while undoubtedly visually appealing and able to offer a politicized message on occasion, had little sway as actual works of art. Figure 1 and Figure 2 are examples of the mass-produced postcards that commented on the financial side of the Franco-Russian alliance.

The French satirical postcards that will be subjected to a close reading in this article, however, can be considered individual artistic pieces. Issued in small print runs and often created via time-consuming methods including hand-colorization, their value was recognized at the time. They commanded much higher prices than other kinds of postcards and were avidly consumed. It was not uncommon for them to be issued in numbered editions like prints—for example, the postcard that will eventually be seen in Figure 4 was No. 12 of 100 that were made featuring this illustration—and for the most well-known artists to sign their works like painters did on their canvases. Admittedly the speed needed to execute designs on a weekly basis—as most series were issued on that schedule—meant that not every illustration was a masterpiece, but that was never the goal. Instead, satirical postcards, which collapsed a lot of information into a single image, offered extremely contextualized commentaries on the political news of the day.3

The illustrations reproduced in this article feature works by two of France’s most well-known postcard satirists: Orens and Mille. Brief biographical information about each is provided since it cannot be assumed that all readers are familiar with their histories and because the information also touches upon how their works were produced.

Charles Denizard, who used the pseudonym Orens, was born in the town of Pontru, in the Aisne department of Northern France, in 1879.4 At age twelve, he went to work in a printing house in Amiens. This job gave him his first exposure to the techniques for making lithographs and etchings. In 1896, he began studying etching and painting at l’École des Beaux-Arts de Paris, thanks to a scholarship from the Ministry of Public Education. Orens’ first satirical drawings date from March 1902, and the following year, he launched Le Burin satirique (The Satirical Chisel), a postcard series that focused on major news stories. Orens aimed to produce eight new designs a month, although he did not always manage to do so. The demands of producing so many images in short periods of time also meant that some of them were more effective than others. At times, jokes fell flat, or the news of the day did not inspire a vivid result. The postcards were available by annual subscription for the entire series or sold singly in stores. Often, they were hard to find since collectors were known to snatch up several copies of new postcards, in the hopes of reselling them later at much higher prices (de Perthuis 1998, p. 145).

At the time he began this first major series, Orens also shifted to using “eau forte”, in other words etching a picture printed from a metal plate that has had a design cut into it with nitric acid, to create his images. When asked how he went about his work, Orens once wrote that he almost never created draft versions, even though selling such items could have been another source of revenue for him. Instead, he confessed: “I throw my idea directly on stone or on silver”, and erased problem areas once the postcards were printed.5 The postcards he was producing were done in small print runs of no more than 250 copies; they were monochromatic but printed in an array of ink colors. Later in Orens’ career, an extra step—hand colorization—was taken with the postcards, which rendered their images particularly striking and allowed for certain details in the compositions to be highlighted. In other words, such techniques involving color lent an appreciable materiality to the postcards. Interestingly, it was these small print runs, in addition to the labor that was required to produce his postcards, that distinguished these works and meant they commanded much higher prices than ordinary mass-produced postcards (like the ones in Figure 1 and Figure 2). In other words, they were considered more like works of art than disposable commodities.

In mid-March 1903, Orens married Félicie Victorine Leblond and afterwards the name “F. Leblond” was listed as editor of the Le Burin satirique series on the back of the postcards. Within months of their first appearance, Orens’ postcards had caught the attention of some major figures in the world of French caricature. In August 1903, it was announced that he would participate in an upcoming exposition of illustrated postcards that was being sponsored by the undersecretary responsible for posts and telegraphs. John Grand-Carteret, a noted collector who had been writing about caricature for Le Figaro since the 1890s, was also involved with that exposition and he championed Orens’ work widely.6

Orens profited well from his work. He earned about 1500 francs per month from Le Burin satirique, and he produced and sold other postcards as well. Soon, his success sparked other artists to imitate him, notably by shifting away from lithography to etching, and by launching satirical postcard series of their own. Few matched Orens’ success, however. Only Mille, who will be discussed in more detail below, and Molynk truly established themselves as rivals in terms of the quality of their work. Still, Orens did not rest on his laurels. While postcards in the Le Burin satirique series continued to be issued until 1907, Orens launched a second postcard series, L’Actualiste (The Currentist), in August 1904. With initial print runs of 75 copies, which were soon increased to 100, these engraved and hand-colored postcards were among the best work done by him. The series eventually encompassed more than 450 subjects before its production stopped in 1914. A third series, Le Panthéon d’ Orens, also briefly appeared in these years. Orens continued to design postcards into the post-World War II period. He died in Paris in October 1965, and his remains are in the Columbarium at the Père Lachaise cemetery.

Félix-Antoine Marmonier was slightly older than Charles Denizard but not by such a wide amount that the pair cannot be considered part of the same generation of graphic artists. Marmonier was born at the end of July 1874 in Bourgoin-Jallieu in the Isère department.7 While working as a caricaturist in Lyon in 1897, he married Laurence Andréa Marie Mille, the daughter of a businessman, and the couple had two children. The family eventually moved to Paris, where in 1904, Marmonier and his wife established the “Marmonier-Mille & Company” studio, which offered a range of photographic and artistic services, including photo-mechanical reproductions of images. Very soon after Marmonier started publishing postcards that featured his own drawings, he began using his wife’s maiden name as a pseudonym, although he never explained why and some of his earliest designs had been published under his own name. For example, Figure 3, one of his first musings on France’s financial support of erstwhile European allies, appeared with Marmonier as his signature.

Little is known about his personal life over the next decade, although it appears that his wife did some of the hand-coloring work for his postcards. Mille was killed in a traffic accident outside his house on 16 June 1914.

Mille’s best-known postcard series, L’Arc-en-ciel (The Rainbow), ran from September 1904 to November 1906, and it contained 110 separate images.8 The engraved illustrations were all hand-colored. The initial print run for each postcard was only 75, but it eventually grew to 100 and on occasion 150 copies. As was the case with Orens’ works, Mille’s postcards were quickly snapped up by collectors as soon as they hit the market and, given the laborious work that went into producing them, were likewise often viewed as small works of art rather than as mass-produced items that could be disposed of without a second thought. Interestingly, scholar Bruno de Perthuis found that when he surveyed the postcards he had amassed over many years, the ones that had been mailed were often sent to addresses in wealthy Parisian neighborhoods, something he did not view as surprising given the high prices that such items commanded (de Perthuis 1996, p. 3). Other consumers viewed the postcards as documents that “served as a form of news for members of the public since they presented world events as they were happening” and hence the postcards should be preserved for posterity (Rowley 2021, p. 253). Indeed, it is possible to view Orens’ and Mille’s long-running series as a form of journalism, particularly since in addition to L’Arc-en-ciel, Mille created a number of shorter postcard series that offered more in-depth commentary about particular scandals or political subjects. In total, he likely created 400 caricatures over the course of his career.

While the print runs of the satirical postcards were miniscule in comparison with the masses of picture postcards created to celebrate the Tsar, his family members, and the Franco-Russian alliance in general, the French government paid attention to the images Orens, Mille, and a host of other artists were producing, as it did to political satire in general. This is because caricatures were “perceived as posing a greater threat to public order and social stability than the written word, because, to varying degrees, they were seen as more powerful in impact, more accessible to the lower classes (and above all the illiterate)” (Goldstein 2015, p. 63). But postcards, as a medium, largely escaped the level of scrutiny that the French government applied at times to illustrated periodicals.9

It was also presumed that satirical images had the power to upset international relations. The Russian government notably scrutinized expressions of French public opinion in the early 20th century, as it needed to continue borrowing massive sums from abroad to finance industrial development and the construction of the Trans-Siberian Railway, among other things. During this difficult period in the Franco-Russian alliance, the Russians actively courted and subsidized the French press. From 1904 to 1906, an estimated 2.5 million francs were paid to various newspapers, as well as key editors and journalists (Long 1972, p. 343). The payments peaked from May to October 1905, in other words after a series of defeats in the Russo-Japanese War had weakened Russia’s reputation as a military ally and as harsh Tsarist responses to episodes in the 1905 revolution drew protests from the French public. An estimated 200,000 francs were changing hands each month at this time, with payments being made “to approximately fifty newspapers, periodicals, and news agencies, including Figaro, Le Temps, Le Petit Parisien, Le Journal, Journal des Débats, and Havas new agency; sources also show 38 specific individuals receiving subsidies from the Russian government (Long 1972, p. 352)”.

After the worst of the upheavals associated with 1905 had passed, the monies provided as direct subsidies diminished, or perhaps shifted is a better term, since the Russian government increased its expenditures on advertising in French newspapers from 1906 to 1912. About 20 newspapers benefited as a result, with the total amount being spent on advertising reaching a high of 188,922 francs in 1907 (Tomaszewski 1997, p. 282). However, it must be said that even after the distribution of millions of francs, the Tsarist state still could not ensure entirely favorable media coverage—a point underscored by the postcards under consideration here—and regular protests were conveyed to the French ambassador when Russian officials noted something objectionable.

Russian ministers could do very little about the satirical postcards that kept Tsarist affairs at the forefront of French political discourse, although they were certainly aware of the long geographic and worrisome reach that some of these small pieces of cardboard had. For example, in July 1906, when Russian police officials raided the offices of Ekaterinburg-based newspaper, Uralskaia zhizn’, they found a cache of satirical postcards, including some that reproduced images from French satirical works (Mathew 2018, p. 218). In another instance, a drawing by Mille from his L’Arc-en-ciel postcard series found new life in Russia. There, some enterprising opponent of the Tsarist regime created a hand-drawn copy of Mille’s work—complete with caption translated into Russian—and reproduced it photo-mechanically onto their own postcards.10 In order to understand why these postcards, small impermanent yet often striking works of art, were so objectionable, it helps to look at some examples in more detail and analyze the visual strategies employed by the artists to convey their messages.

Figure 4—an Orens postcard from early 1906 cast Nicholas II very much in the role of supplicant begging for financial help from the French government.11 To understand the image, some background information is required. By this point, Russia was a year into a revolution and the violence meted out by the state as it struggled to contain the situation had led to an international outcry. In France, criticism of the Russian government for its actions on Bloody Sunday, for example, was particularly acute, despite that fact that French Foreign Minister Théophile Delcassé had defended the January 22nd shooting during a speech at the Chamber of Deputies (Michon 1969, p.136). His words fell on deaf ears. Instead, only days later, more than 6000 people attended a protest meeting in Paris where they heard speeches by an array of French socialists, union leaders, and the president of La Ligue des droits de l’Homme (Berelowitch 2007, p. 387). Smaller meetings were held in provincial towns, and hundreds of thousands of posters were put up across France. Some of the latter called upon the government to sever its diplomatic relations with Russia (Berelowitch 2007, p. 387). Public anger also led to the formation of La Société des amis du peuple russe et des peuples opprimés. Among its members were some of the most prominent public figures in France, including writers Anatole France and Octave Mirabeau, scientists Pierre and Marie Curie, and statesman Georges Clemenceau.

The level of anger was such that the Russian government grew rightly concerned about its ability to negotiate much-needed foreign loans with French bankers, particularly as occasional articles in the French press openly criticized Russia’s constant need for money from its ally. For example, Clemenceau opined in L’Aurore on 31 January 1905 that “the alliance was certainly based on necessity: the tsar’s constant need for capital”, and a left-leaning paper, L’Action, ran an article by Deputy Charles Dumont six weeks later that argued the government should refuse any more loans to Russia while the war and domestic unrest were ongoing (Long 1974, p. 350). Russian Finance Minister Vladimir Kokovtsov admitted in his memoirs that “[d]uring my conferences with the banks I attached great importance to and was greatly worried by the attitude of the Paris newspapers towards the loan” that was only eventually secured in April 1906 (Kokovtsov 1935, p. 120).

Kokovtsov’s concern was very much justified. By 1905, Russia’s sovereign debt was 7081 million rubles, with between 66 and 75% of that amount held in foreign hands (Siegel 2016, p. 25). Government officials were already negotiating with a group of French bankers for a new loan of at least 300 million rubles (800 million francs) when revolution broke out in January. Without the monies, Russia could not finance the ongoing war with Japan and faced the real possibility of having to go off the gold standard. As the tumultuous year dragged on, so too did the negotiations. In mid-October 1905, representatives from a consortium of French banks, as well as from other major banks from Britain, the United States, Germany, and the Netherlands, gathered in St. Petersburg ostensibly to finalize the large loan. However, while they were there, a general strike broke out and the bankers waited to see how the government would respond. Ultimately, the October Manifesto, which promised elections (although with limited franchise) and the establishment of a Duma with legislative powers, was issued at the end of the month, but the bankers left the Russian capital without finalizing any loan. It was only in the first months of 1906—in other words the moment when Orens put out the postcard in Figure 4—that those negotiations recommenced, as the situation in Russia appeared to be stabilizing. Finally, a deal was reached. A loan for 843,750,000 rubles (2.25 billion francs) was signed on 29 April 1906 (Siegel 2016, p. 32).

Turning to the contents of the postcard, the positioning of Nicholas II’s body is striking. Not only is he on his knees begging, hat in hand and with a tear leaking from his eye, for financial assistance, but the inclusion of a wheeled cart makes a not-so-subtle reference to Russia’s recent defeat in its war with Japan. The fact that Orens chose to leave the postcard’s background empty only further emphasizes this detail for the viewer. It equates the tsar with the war-wounded, men whose fortunes have been forever adversely affected by the conflict. Just as soldiers with now broken bodies will struggle to make ends meet in the future, the financial costs of the war, according to Orens, have left the Russian emperor and his government in a crippled situation.12

Similarly, the difference in height between the two figures shows the power imbalance between them. In this, the image is reminiscent of Figure 3 where French President Émile Loubet, drawn as a rooster,13 lorded over other European leaders who were partially anthropomorphized as chickens waiting to peck at the gold that he is shown distributing as feed. Here, in Figure 4, Loubet again towers over Nicholas II and nothing in his facial expression indicates any sympathy for the Russian leader. Indeed, the positioning of Loubet’s hand, which is pointing away from the outstretched hat held by the tsar, suggests that no money will be forthcoming. Growing French frustration with the alliance, as well as distrust that the country’s ally will be able to repay its large debts, is hinted at by the words Orens puts coming out of Nicholas II’s mouth: “Charity, my good man. It will be returned to you…in Heaven”.

A final detail of note concerns the clothing that Orens has chosen for the two men. While the French President is clad in a suit, as viewers would have expected of a European political leader, his Russian counterpart is drawn wearing the stereotypical garb of a Russian peasant. It is possible that Orens was referencing popular perceptions of the Russians as backward and even semi-barbaric with this design choice.

Our next images ignore French politicians, preferring instead to use a personification of Marianne when referring to the nation. Doing so brings a gendered element into the frame. While it was not uncommon to see “Russia” depicted abstractly as a woman (often wearing a sarafan and kokoshnik) on contemporary postcards, it would have made no sense to do so here, in satirical images meant to criticize the Franco-Russian alliance. That is because the predatory sexualized elements of the caricatures only function when the composition involves a man and a woman. Moreover, using the distinct likeness of Nicholas II—complete with the snub-nose and closely cropped beard that satirists always used when referring to the tsar—was vital for the commentary to work. The images had to convey the idea that it was the regime of this particular tsar that was objectionable.

In Figure 5, Nicholas II appears in bed beside a sleeping Marianne. While he wears pajamas covered with Imperial double-headed eagles (the symbol of the Russian monarchy), she appears to be clad only in a red Phrygian cap, a garment that became emblematic during the French Revolution. Since Mille decided to draw the couple in extreme close-up, viewers are confronted with a host of details that complement the underlying message of the postcard. For example, their bed linen has been monogrammed with initials: R.F. for République Française and N.II. for Nicholas II, and to underscore that the arrangement between the pair is transactional rather one based on love, a supposed copy of the Franco-Russian alliance rests under the candle that is burning on the nightstand. Its presence can also lead viewers to infer that Nicholas II is being portrayed as a gigolo whose payment for the sexual encounter that has presumably just occurred comes in the form of a diplomatic agreement. Mille’s critique of that alliance is expressed two ways: via the postcard’s caption, “Marriage of Money”, and by the fact that Nicholas II is shown about to victimize his partner while she sleeps. Again, the use of close-up is important here, for it makes it impossible to deny what the tsar is up to. Not content with the benefits that come with the agreement that has been signed, the Russian tsar is going to fleece the unwitting Marianne of even her jewels. In other words, Russia is an untrustworthy partner that will not hesitate to rob France if given the opportunity to do so.

The inclusion of so many details specifically connected to money distinguishes this postcard from another one that Mille produced, likely around the same time. Captioned “Marriage of Convenience”, the postcard in Figure 6 also pictures the couple in bed and the female figure again wears a red Phrygian cap. Undoubtedly the image can be read as a negative comment upon the overall Franco-Russian alliance since the young woman who represents France appears far from satisfied with her sleeping Russian husband. But, in this instance, Nicholas II is passive; he is certainly not resorting to robbery to secure more financial gain for his country.

Our final example, Figure 7, shows that the signing of the 1906 loan did not end the overt criticism about Russian borrowing habits among all segments of the French population. The postcard was part of a 10-postcard series entitled “Les ‘Poléons’ d’aujourd’hui” (“The Napoleons of Today”) that Orens issued in 1907. Some of the images presented caricatures of domestic political figures such as President of the Council of Ministers Georges Clemenceau, Parliamentary Deputy and former President of the French Socialist Party Jean Jaurès, and French President Armand Fallières. Others ridiculed European monarchs such as King Edward VII of Britain, King Leopold II of Belgium, and King Alphonse XIII of Spain. And, of course, the one reproduced here mocked Emperor Nicholas II. While the would-be Napoleons all wear a bicorne, the two-cornered hat that the former French emperor was seldom seen without and a symbol that would have been instantly recognizable to anyone who viewed these postcards at the time, the other details of each illustration are personalized to the particular leader.

In the case of the Russian tsar, he is assigned the nickname “the Napoleon of the Gropers”, which seems apt given that Orens has drawn him in the process of fondling a buxom Marianne. In this rendition, Marianne—who sports the familiar initials “RF” for République Française on her skirt—more closely resembles a stylized peasant girl wearing a folk costume, complete with wooden clogs, than the inspirational heroine leading the people in Eugène Delacroix’s famous painting, “Liberty Leading the People”. However naïve she may appear, the girl’s revolutionary credentials remain evident as she wears a Phrygian cap, which is red in the colorized version of this postcard. In the image, she works to remove the emperor’s boot, as the dutiful wife of a soldier might have done upon her husband’s return. Meanwhile, Nicholas II seeks to stealthily extract the bags of money she has saved, tucked into her decolletage. In other words, the postcard is implying that while France continues to behave in a reputable manner, the Russians will rob their ally if they can do so. Again, the financial aspects of the Franco-Russian alliance are depicted as predatory and detrimental to France.

The crisis noted by these postcards—when the Russian government hovered on the brink of bankruptcy and desperately needed an infusion of money from its partner while the French government faced increasing criticism for its ties to a regime that appeared to be poorly governed, oppressive towards its own people, and financially parasitical to its ally—eventually passed. France and Russia remained locked in their military and economic alliance, however unhappily, for another decade until the First World War led to a complete reconfiguration of the European political landscape. Money continued to flow from France to Russia as well. By 1913, Russia had received roughly 17 billion francs in public or private loans from French sources (Carroll 1964, p. 263). And satirical postcards by Orens and Mille continued to offer regular commentary on world events, although admittedly their attention shifted from Russian affairs to other topics as new crises emerged on the international stage. The high quality of the works that this pair of talented artists produced similarly did not change. While they worked in a medium that was often meant to be ephemeral and that has frequently been overlooked by scholars, the postcards that have survived to this day demonstrate not only the artistic legacy left by Charles Denizard and Félix-Antoine Marmonier, but also underscore the importance of such sources for understanding popular responses to international relations in fin-de-siècle era Europe.