Orlando Figes’s Natasha’s Dance is an ambitious, sweeping exploration of Russian cultural identity from the 18th century to the late Soviet period. Rather than presenting a traditional chronological history, Figes constructs a cultural palimpsest—layering music, literature, visual arts, religious thought, and ideology to capture the elusive, shifting essence of “Russianness.”
The central metaphor, taken from a scene in War and Peace, sees Natasha Rostova dance instinctively to a peasant melody—suggesting with Tolstoy that Russian identity, even when filtered through elite European sensibilities and Asiatic influences, contains something ancient, innate, and unteachable. This is the product of a culture squeezed between two worlds, exploited and injured by both. But as Figes reveals, this intuition is not necessarily natural—it is constructed, contested, and continually rewritten.
Frames and Times
The book moves between thematic and chronological frames, weaving together parallel threads that challenge the reader to think of cultural history in cyclical and resonant models rather than linear progression. From the westernizing ambitions of Peter the Great and the French affectations of the aristocracy to the ideological ferment of the Slavophiles and narodniks, Russian identity is portrayed as fundamentally dual—or even trial: simultaneously European and anti-European, enlightened and mystical, imperial and self-colonized.
The tension between St. Petersburg and Moscow is not just geographical but symbolic—the former a window to the West, the latter a spiritual core. Of course, through today’s lens one question resonates more sharply: Is Russia inherently imperialistic? Is it the nation with “evil in their blood,” or one “formed by the steppe”? Figes doesn’t answer these questions directly—and some deserve no answer—but he provides insight through pastiches. For example, he contrasts Russian colonization with that of other empires, noting the adoption of Siberian cultural forms and a self-image as an Asiatic power. The argument is not that Russian imperialism was less real, but that it was shaped differently than its European counterparts.
Built from Crisis
Figes is particularly skilled in illustrating how different artistic forms refract this identity crisis—and here lies both the main strength and main problem of the book. It is still mostly interpretative: interpretation does a lot of heavy lifting, sometimes offering very strong readings without sufficient grounding. He connects Tolstoy’s moral idealism with Orthodox spirituality, Dostoevsky’s psychic landscapes with Slavophile messianism, or Stravinsky’s modernism with folk ritual.
However, this model has its limits. Readers unfamiliar with broader cultural production may mistakenly assume that these were the only outputs of their time. While this can be accepted as a “non-exhaustive” approach, it does at times create confusion—such as when Bulgakov appears only in the chapter on Moscow. At its worst, it leads to strained readings, like the claim that Kandinsky’s horse paintings reflect a Mongol legacy in the Russian soul. When that’s all we’re told about Kandinsky, the notion becomes hard to treat seriously.
The Peasant as Mirror
The book’s treatment of the peasantry is one of its most interesting—and provocative—elements. Rather than portray the Russian narod as mere victims or folklore vessels, Figes explores the deep entwinement of elite and peasant cultures. Aristocratic children were raised by peasant nannies; composers mined folk songs; intellectuals mythologized the peasant as the nation’s moral core—even as actual peasants lived in crushing poverty.
This disjunction between myth and reality recurs. Particularly intriguing is the tension between the “model peasant” and real-life peasants‘ own tastes in art and morality. However, as the book moves into the Soviet era, this figure vanishes. The peasant—or common person—reappears only as “illiterate locals interested in cinema,” leaving behind poetically vague farewells like “the peasant remained unknown, and maybe unknowable.”
Stories, So Many Stories
Stylistically, Figes leans heavily on anecdote and personal narrative. For some, this humanizes history. For others—myself included—it distracts from deeper conceptual insight. The stories pile up, becoming melodramatic at times. But it’s not just a matter of taste or academic rigor. The cumulative effect is to portray Russia as a deeply emotional, tragic nation. Is this a unique trait? Couldn’t any culture be portrayed this way, given enough tales of tuberculosis, state repression, and tortured artists?
The Author and the Echo
Natasha’s Dance has not been immune to criticism. Figes has been accused of factual inaccuracies, questionable sourcing, and engaging in an Amazon review scandal to promote his own work and disparage others. His next book, The Whisperers, was mired in further controversy, with its Russian edition cancelled due to “numerous factual mistakes.”
Nonetheless, this book remains worthwhile—especially when read alongside more grounded or journalistic voices like Mark Galeotti or Mikhail Zygar. Its ambition is enormous, its insights often brilliant, and its narrative undeniably rich. But its credibility is complicated, and any reader should bring both admiration and skepticism to the page.