An Evening to Remember

In February of 1903 Russia appeared to be in the ascendant. The fruits of the "golden decade" of Russian industry – the 1890s – were on full display. Cities were growing and becoming more prosperous, new businesses and factories were constantly springing up, and investment was pouring in from France, Belgium, and England.

Even in the countryside there were signs of progress, although rural Russia was faring less well than the cities. Only two years had passed since many provinces had suffered a devastating crop failure of the sort that usually hits Russia every ten years. Furthermore, in the 52 years that had passed since the emancipation of the serfs, many landowners still had not figured out how to make their land profitable, and once grand estates were in a state of decay. On the other hand, some members of the peasantry had managed to thrive, despite the constraints placed on them by the obshchina, the peasant community that, under Russia's unique system of communal peasant ownership, held title to the land.

Overall, Russia appeared to be moving in the right direction. It did not hurt that 25 years had passed since the country had been involved in a war. Furthermore, Russia enjoyed a strong alliance with France, and the tensions that had plagued Anglo-Russian relations just two decades ago had all but disappeared, and a pact between the two powers was in the offing.

On the cultural front, Russia was truly blossoming. Russian literature was being presided over by the likes of Tolstoy and Chekhov. The actors of the recently founded Moscow Art Theater (see "150 Years With Stanislavsky," page 52) were uplifting audiences with the simplicity and authenticity of their performances. The country was awash in brilliant young artists, poets, philosophers, and musicians.

Given Russia's apparent vitality, the powers that be could surely afford to relax a bit when it came to small, dissatisfied clusters within the population driven by pipedreams like a constitution or a parliament. And, as the peasants continued to bow low to their former masters, there seemed to be no need to worry about their festering anger over the injustices of land distribution. As for the thriving entrepreneurial class, why should they care about anything but their profits, their lavish lifestyles, and their art collections? Certainly they, of all people, would have no reason to concern themselves with political ideas, despite the fact that they and their well-educated children were best positioned to understand just what freedom and democracy were all about. Perhaps these powers that be did pause to consider the dangers posed by seminarians, students, and the ever-present disgruntled ne'er-do-wells that always want to rock the boat with their harebrained ideas about socialism, to say nothing of the terrorists who occasionally succeeded in their violent attacks on dignitaries. But for now, these were just tiny clouds over the sunny prospects that seemed to be opening up before Russia.

The year 1903 marked 290 years of Romanov rule, and although the dynasty's reign had been marked by more than its fair share of rebellions, plots, regicides, and failed attempts at reform, the tsar and his close associates never doubted that the country was lucky to have them. The young, affable, and somewhat dimwitted Nicholas II truly believed autocracy to be the most natural and correct model for his country, and he took his duties extremely seriously. One of the most important of these duties, in his eyes, was fortifying and defending his autocratic powers.

Given all of the above, Nicholas felt that it was only fitting to celebrate the anniversary of the February 1613 crowning of the first Romanov, Tsar Mikhail, with proper pomp and ceremony.

Months of painstaking effort went into preparing the celebration. Renowned tailors, artists, and ballet masters were put to work well in advance of the event. Grand duchesses and young officers diligently rehearsed their roles. Finally, the day came.

On February 11, guests poured into the Hermitage for the so-called "Evening" (Вечер), presenting themselves in pairs to the young imperial couple not with Western-style bows and curtsies, but with the low obeisance traditional in Russia. The assemblage was then entertained with a spectacular concert, featuring the singing of Fyodor Shalyapin (Chaliapin) and the dancing of the legendary Anna Pavlova, after which the guests themselves danced a "Russian" (a demure and highly choreographed folk dance). A lavish dinner was then served amidst the Hermitage's spectacular collection of European masters.

Two days later, on February 13, a masquerade ball was held. This event was designed as a sort of invocation of an idealized Russian past, a past so dear to the heart of the tsar, and to his wife, who strove heart and soul to understand and love Russia and sincerely considered herself Russian, despite growing up in Germany and England.

The ball was stunning in its extravagance and originality. All 390 guests were dressed in stylized versions of seventeenth century attire. The tsar came as his ancestor Alexei Mikhailovich (son of the first Romanov tsar and father of Peter the Great). The halls of the Winter Palace filled with noblemen and women dressed as seventeenth-century boyars, townsfolk, peasants, princes, and Zaporozhian Cossacks. But even the guests dressed as peasants did not feel compelled by the dictates of realism to forsake gold and precious stones. Every costume was opulently begemmed. It was as if the family jewels of the entire Russian aristocracy were being put on display in one place.

Before the more familiar European-style dancing began, 20 couples performed a variety of well-rehearsed Russian dances. Two marvelous solos were presented by the empress' sisters, Grand Duchess Elizabeth and Grand Duchess Zinaida Yusupova. The guests dined to the crystal tones of the Arkhangelsky Choir.

The ball was an event to remember, and for a while its memory was a source of great pleasure. Its participants continued to appear in their costumes at various celebrations à la russe and posed in them for St. Petersburg's best photographers. It seemed as if the memory of the ball's merriment and opulence would live on for all eternity, or at least for decades. Alas, just two short years later the afterglow was dispelled by a series of events that showed that all was not well in the Russian Empire.

On January 9, 1905, workers marched on that same Winter Palace where two years prior diamond-studded boyars and peasants had cavorted. Protesters attempting to submit a petition to the tsar were met with gunfire, marking the start of the first Russian Revolution. Soon estates were going up in flames and city streets were blocked by barricades.

In February 1905, almost two years to the day after the ball, Grand Duchess Elizabeth's husband, Grand Duke Sergei Alexandrovich – who had cut such a dashing figure dressed as a prince, but now dressed for his role as Moscow's conservative and much-despised governor general – was assassinated by a terrorist. Who could have imagined back when she joyously glided through her Russian dance that the widowed grand duchess would immerse herself in religion, found the Martha and Mary Convent, and spend her days praying over the sins of her ruthless husband and, perhaps, those of her other relatives.

Amidst the opulence of the 1903 ball, would it have been imaginable that Empress Alexandra, who looked so stunning dressed as a seventeenth century tsarina, would soon fall under a pale of suspicion that she was a German spy and Rasputin's lover, or that she would perish at gunpoint along with her entire family in the basement of a house in Yekaterinburg? Would it have been imaginable that Felix Yusupov, son of the ball's graceful boyarina Zinaida, would be among Rasputin's murderers in 1916 and end his days, along with his mother and other relatives, in emigration? And, back amid the ball's shimmer of silk, velvet, and diamonds, who would have imagined that other members of the royal family would be shot and thrown into a mineshaft, where they would be left to a torturous death, comforted during their final moments by Grand Duchess Elizabeth, who died beside them?

Just what was it that these people were being punished for, as they were murdered in Bolshevik captivity or forced to flee their homeland, never to see it again? Were they victims of the brutality and savagery of their own people? Or were they doomed by their own blindness and intransigence?

Perhaps there is truth in both of these explanations, but evidence for the latter can still be found in the Hermitage, where the costumes worn at the 1903 ball, which survived the revolutions and wars that buffeted Russia throughout the twentieth century, are still housed. They testify to an extravagance that served to bolster a false sense of innate majesty. In a word: hubris.

One costume worn at the ball lives on in international pop culture. The travel gown worn by Padmé Amidala (portrayed by actress Natalie Portman), queen of the planet Naboo in the Star Wars movie The Attack of the Clones, was modeled on the boyarina costume worn by Grand Duchess Kseniya, the tsar's aunt. Unlike many of her relatives, Kseniya Alexandrovna lived a long life, however tinged by tragedy, and died in England in 1960.

Perhaps the designer of Padmé's costume appreciated a certain link between the Queen of Naboo and the Romanov Grand Duchess. Both were royals forced to flee their native land (or planet, in Padmé's case) and live in exile.

Another connection can be found in Natalie Portman's Russian roots. She was born in Jerusalem; her parents had emigrated there from Kishinev.

Above: Kseniya Alexandrovna in her 1903 ball costume, and Natalie Portman as Padmé Amidala