The King of Vodka (9 page)

One day, according to Zhukov's story (which could not be independently verified), he was doing a portrait of an old, bearded man. The man, tired of sitting motionless for so long, began
to stretch his body. He told the painter his hip hurt, probably due to the strain of a fishing trip and recent rains. He asked Zhukov, “Maybe you have something?” Zhukov fixed the man a drink. “He wiped his beard haughtily, drank everything, and ate a bit of something after it. Then he turned to me and said: ‘Ah, Smirnov's vodka was really good? Have you ever tried it? You must have been too young then. It was good, really very good.'”

The story he then told Zhukov was of a canny, up-and-coming Pyotr Smirnov. The man's memories were vague in some places and clearly mistaken in others, but his overall message was vivid and insightful: Smirnov had been a marketing wizard. One morning, the man said, Smirnov set out for Khitrov market, the grimiest, smelliest, and saddest spot in all of Moscow. Crowds of beggars, thieves, shabbily clad women selling spoiled food, and shoeless ragamuffins haunted the square, located in the center of the city. The people scurried about beneath a constant steam that seemed to hover like a cloud. They slept on the ground or in doss-houses; they ate tinned stew or fried sausages, prepared by women who kept the food warm by covering the rims of their huge cast-iron pots with their bodies. They drank in the two-and three-floored pubs that surrounded Khitrov, washing away their troubles with rancid vodka. At times, as many as 10,000 people passed through the place Russian journalist Vladimir Gilyarovskiy described as “a moving rotten pit.”
⁸

Smirnov, dressed modestly, knew what he was looking for in Khitrov. In the mix of vagabonds and panhandlers were newly arrived men in search of a job. They came to Khitrov directly from the train stations and planted themselves under a huge awning where employers of all kinds came to find day laborers. Smirnov studied the eyes of the men he saw, unconcerned with their stained or ragged clothing, scruffy beards, or straw shoes. He could fix that. What he could not tolerate were sloppy drunks. Smirnov needed sober men, respectable enough to be
taken seriously and proper enough to command attention. He rounded up fifteen of them.

He invited them back to his house where a long, narrow table had been already set with vodka and snacks. He sat them down and gave the men some time to warm themselves and have a bite to eat. He then asked each of them where they lived and where they were from. Smirnov learned that he had selected a broad assortment of residents and visitors who came from many different areas in and around Moscow. Smirnov then took out his wallet, tossing down three rubles in front of each man's plate.

“Beginning with this day, you will drink and eat as much as you want on my treat. All I ask is that you work well for me. Now I want you to go back to your neighborhoods, order meat soups, and demand Smirnov vodka everywhere you go. Of course, people will first look at you with great surprise and try to suggest another vodka. They will try to persuade you to take another drink. But you should complain loudly so that everybody pays attention to you. A waiter will run away to get his manager and report that a strange guest demands Smirnov vodka. The manager will come to you. You should tell him loudly: ‘How is it possible that your respected establishment does not have such a vodka? It is absolutely the most remarkable vodka there is!'” Smirnov told his new hires to refuse all substitutions they might be offered and leave the pub in a huff. The men were then to go to the next bar and “begin this performance again. Then come back to my table.”
⁹

The entourage did as they were told. And they did it well. At least that's how the old man told it. “That very same night, Smirnov started to accept numerous calls: People demanded ten, fifteen, or twenty boxes of vodka. The vodka gushed out across Moscow.”

Once most of the drinking establishments in Moscow had been hit, Smirnov summoned his emissaries again. “Well, my
dears, we have finished one thing. Let us promote another.” He then instructed the men to travel along the rail lines that jutted from Moscow's central hub and disembark at every stop. “Demand our vodka everywhere.” The men were delighted to carry out Smirnov's latest orders. He had fed them well, given them plenty of good vodka to drink, and paid them handsomely.

Zhukov listened as his storyteller continued, remembering that calls for Smirnov's vodka traveled like a virus, infecting one town after another. In no time at all, orders were pouring in and Smirnov's vodka “became popular all over Russia and then—worldwide.” The old man sat up, returned to his pose, and sighed. “Paint now!” he commanded Zhukov.

And so the story goes. Smirnov, as master puppeteer, put on the perfect show. He convinced people that his vodka was special and he had done so simply—and cheaply—relying on his innate sense of human nature. Smirnov knew he could not sway drinkers through advertisements or shiny labels or fancy titles. Neighbors had to hear praise for his vodka from a fellow drinker, the man seated on the bench at the far end of the bar.

Almost overnight, Smirnov had transformed his good, cheap vodka into something fashionable, almost trendy—and extremely profitable. By the end of 1872, Smirnov employed more than sixty workers and oversaw three managers. He produced up to 100,000 pails of alcoholic drinks and grossed 600,000 rubles annually, or the equivalent of almost $7 million in today's dollars.
¹⁰
He had expanded his menu of offerings well beyond vodka, too, hoping to broaden his appeal to consumers differing tastes. He produced an array of Russian and foreign wines, hard liquors, cognacs, and
nalivkas
(berry-instilled vodka). He had also kept his prices low, at least in the beginning. Smirnov did not want to alienate those consumers most responsible for his success. He charged just thirty
kopeks, or twenty-one cents, for a bottle of wine, significantly less than the average of sixty-eight kopeks a bottle.
^*

Smirnov was now wealthy and enjoying enormous success. This good fortune, though, was confined to business. Smirnov's personal life was another matter.

 

S
INCE ALMOST THE
beginning, 1872 had been a difficult and traumatic year for Smirnov at home. His seven-year-old daughter, Anna, died in January of “throat inflammation.”
¹¹
Just a few months later, in May, his mother Matryona died at the age of seventy. Then in November, Smirnov's one-and-a-half-year-old daughter, Olga, was buried after contracting scarlet fever. All three were laid to rest in the Pyatnitskoye cemetery.

Sorrow was the unwelcome visitor in Smirnov's vast home, inhabiting every room, every piece of furniture. Nataliya likely suffered more than Pyotr—at least outwardly. The death of her daughters left her heartbroken, but now, thankfully, she was pregnant again. This baby, she vowed as she stroked her growing tummy, would survive, joining its five brothers and sisters. She could not bury another child.

Smirnov mourned, too, but he would not allow himself to dwell. Ever the pragmatist, Smirnov accepted these misfortunes as the unhappy, normal consequences of life. Besides, Smirnov still faced serious, distracting business challenges. His liquor was flowing, to be sure, thanks to his ingenious marketing ploys. However, it was being consumed more by the under class than by the upper crust.

This class distinction presented Smirnov with a unique problem. In some ways, he, like many other merchants, might have detested the haughtiness of Russia's upper echelons. Many had
done nothing to earn their positions, their wealth, or their pedigrees. They fed off the good fortunes of ancestors and the imperial protections they inherited. Yet Smirnov also yearned for their acceptance. Indeed, he wanted his children to live the way they lived. He wanted, eventually, to be one of them. It was not unlike the tug of a magnet, at once irresistible and then repellent, with just the slightest twist. It was this tug that Smirnov felt most.

Wooing the gentry would require a different approach from the one he had concocted for the lower classes. These people did not hang out in dark, neighborhood pubs. They attended lavish balls; they frequented the theater, the ballet, and the opera; they socialized in plush, exclusive clubs that served only haute cuisine and fine, mostly imported spirits. The Moscow English Club, founded in 1772, was the best-known of these stylish gathering spots. Tolstoy, a member for a time, wrote of it in
War and Peace
, noting that visits to the club were part of the regular routine for aristocratic ladies and gentlemen.

The Moscow English Club was indeed a place like no other. Grand carriages parked alongside one another in the large yard before the entrance. Members, only three hundred in total, and their guests ascended a white stone staircase surrounded by two rows of marble columns to reach the club's doors. Servants opened the double doors that led to the entry hall. From there, visitors could head to the portrait hall, which housed portraits of emperors and important members. Or they could go to the drawing room, reserved for card play. Or they could play in the billiards room. The library offered one of the most complete collections of Russian and foreign periodicals dating back to 1813. The rooms seemed to go forever, ending with the dining room, the most majestic room of all. It was expansive, stretching the entire length of the building. During dinners, prepared by a coterie of the most prominent chefs in Russia, a small orchestra might play, followed by performances on a stage that featured some of Moscow's best actors.

It was a world far away from anything Smirnov had ever known, yet he wanted his liquors to be as much a fixture of the Moscow English Club as they were at neighborhood taverns. The question was how to turn that desire into reality. Smirnov's answer, like the one he crafted for the peasantry, relied on the nature of Russia's aristocracy. Perception mattered as much if not more than reality—especially the perceptions of Western Europe's high society. Nothing would be more meaningful than its endorsement of Smirnov's products. It would make them chic. And Russians would be proud that one of their own had so impressed the foreign elite.

Smirnov went to work, making plans to travel to Vienna. An international exhibition would open there in mid-April. These competitions were visited by thousands of people from all over the world. More importantly, awards were handed out to vendors with the best products, ranging from shoes to steam engines. If Smirnov could collect such an acknowledgement, it would prove invaluable to his commercial aims.

This would be the vodka maker's first trip abroad. He was probably nervous about the journey—but also invigorated by its promise. He hoped Vienna would put some distance between him and the previous year's sorrows. The year 1872 had been both professionally exhilarating and personally wrenching. What Smirnov did not know was that it would be nothing compared to what came in 1873.

T
he dawn of 1873 began peacefully. Moscow had taken on the look of granite, as a warm cloud cover left the city feeling still and dull. The nation was experiencing a relative calm, as the biggest news of the day related only to the death of the tsar's aunt and an illness suffered by a young prince.

Smirnov was not so calm. He knew the next few months would be hectic—and vital to distinguishing himself and his goods in Vienna. The exhibition, which was just a few months away, had taken on extra significance. The Austrian Empire hoped to polish its image, which had been tarnished by a war with France, financial difficulties, and social unrest. The country intended to demonstrate its emerging economic and political prowess, as well as showcase its picturesque capital city. For their part, the Russians were keen on flaunting their blooming industrialization, proving that they were a flourishing, dynamic nation. Russia had participated in previous international fairs, but none had attracted so many entrepreneurs and in
ventors before from such a wide array of industries. Fully loaded travel packages and special trains from St. Petersburg had been organized to transport participants and visitors to the fair. At least 1,500 merchants, artisans, and engineers from Russia were expected in Vienna in 1873. Just 700 had displayed their wares at the International Exhibition of 1862 in London while 1,300 showed up in 1867 at the Paris World's Fair.

Growth in the vodka industry provided one of the sharpest illustrations of Russia's advancements—and more capitalistic mind-set. Just two spirits makers from Moscow presented in Paris six years ago. The Vienna exhibition was expecting products from more than thirty Russian distillers—plus dozens from other countries. Smirnov, unknown outside of his native country, concluded wisely that he would have to be exceptional to earn any notice.

Preparations for the fair began in earnest months before the scheduled April (May 1 in Austria, which followed the Gregorian calendar) opening. Smirnov's first order of business would be to file the necessary paperwork with government officials in charge of organizing Russians going to Vienna.
^*
The special department would handle most of the administrative tasks for its exhibition participants, from transportation to lodging. Smirnov, however, was responsible for the selection and display of his own drinks. He had to choose which wines and liquors to send and, perhaps, figure out how to get them there. Uncle Ivan would have been able to lend a hand with some of the details, such as what to enter in the fair. He had taken part in another competition a few years earlier and had experience to share. But Ivan's event had been a Russian-only affair in 1870, so he knew little about navigating the international community. Smirnov would have to figure that out for himself.

International exhibition juries tended to consider above all else the pricing of products, manufacturing technologies, output volume, and treatment of factory workers. Smirnov was still relatively small time. He had no schools or medical facilities set up for his sixty or so workers. At least eight other vodka makers produced more alcohol than he did. And his use of modern machinery was no better than his rivals. The one edge Smirnov did possess was price. He sold high-quality alcohol at exceptionally low prices.

Smirnov decided to send a variety of his liquors to Vienna. He hoped that a parade of offerings, which included wines,
nalivkas
, and vodkas, would make him appear more prolific, more of a heavyweight to the judges in Vienna. He also probably decided to use carriages and carts instead of trains to transport his goods to the fair. It was a more cost effective means, but it was also easier for Smirnov to maintain control of his products at all times since one of his men would accompany the cargo.

In all likelihood, he directed his managers to prepare crates for packaging his bottles. They would need to be ready by early March since the journey west would take about a month, depending on the weather. Smirnov's horse-drawn carts would join a convoy of others heading for the exhibition. Celebrated artists such as Ilya Repin and Vasiliy Perov were sending paintings, the Tretyakovs entered furniture fabrics into the competition, the Morozovs sent muslin and velveteen, and other exhibitors dispatched everything from caviar to porcelain to steel cannons to toothache remedies.

There is scant evidence about Smirnov's personal itinerary or his stay in Vienna. But based on experiences of other Russian participants, his journey would have unfolded much like others. Smirnov boarded a train in Moscow, which took him and other exhibitors some four hundred miles to St. Petersburg. From there, it was on to Warsaw. (Passengers needed to change trains in Warsaw as the Russian rails were a different width than those in other parts of Europe.) Adding to the trip's duration, locomo
tives and conductors had to be switched every fifty miles. All told, the exhibitors would arrive in Vienna approximately four days after departing Moscow.

The vodka maker probably intended to leave at the beginning of April. This timetable would allow him to settle into Vienna and assess the exhibition. He was determined to arrive early enough to snag the most prominent location possible within Russia's allotted display space. He also wanted the chance to glad-hand the fair's officials and judges before they embarked on their reviews. They might not know his name now, but Smirnov was determined that they would before the fair ended.

Nataliya was due to deliver their baby during this time. But Smirnov, the traditional Russian patriarch, did not consider his presence a necessity—or even desirable. His assorted family members and a midwife were more than equipped to see Nataliya through the birth, and they would telegraph him with the news when the time came. The thought of delaying his trip likely would not have crossed his mind—or his wife's.

The trip to Vienna, though, must have produced a cobweb of emotions. He knew he was days away from having another child. Would it be another boy? He prayed it would be. And what about the fair? At one moment, he was exuberant about his upcoming foreign adventure—certain he could carry away the event's top honors. But then again, what if he failed? What if his peers at the exhibition saw him as no more than a former serf? What if his provincial roots kept him from garnering the professional accolades he so desperately wanted? As it turned out, Smirnov, clad in his finest dark European suit, was much more prepared for Vienna than it was for him.

 

T
HE
A
USTRIANS HAD
pinned much on the event's success. No expense had been spared erecting multiple buildings in Vienna's Prater Park, including a grand rotunda, and new hotels sprang
up like mushrooms. Apartment owners, hoping to lease their spaces to a sell-out crowd, expected giant paydays. Dignitaries were invited, too, to witness the country's triumph. As a Russian journalist observed: “The exhibition was expected to satisfy the [Austrian's] boldest hopes and dreams. Organizers of the exhibition were ready to spend any amount because they were certain the whole world would gather under the exhibition roof.”
¹

Yet as the opening day approached, the fair looked more like a glorified flea market than a premiere international spectacle. The majority of participants had yet to unpack their goods or arrange their displays. Many waited anxiously for the arrival of their precious packages. Throughout the halls, unopened boxes and crates blocked walkways, constant reminders of the lingering chaos. It would be weeks before all the exhibits were ready, delaying the full opening of several pavilions. The Americans, who had dispatched such items as Colt revolvers, soaps from Colgate, and Pratt & Whitney milling machines, had nothing set up in their section. Part of the problem was administrative. Just days before the scheduled opening, officials still had not assigned space to many participants, leaving foreign exhibitors frustrated, impatient, and unimpressed. “The cases are only half-filled. And if you ask an exhibitor for his specifications, he is sure to ask you to delay any mention of his goods until his better qualities arrive,” wrote one correspondent for the
New York Times.
²

More to blame, though, was the lack of a cohesive, logical floor plan. Products were given space without regard to aesthetics or common sense. Each country was allowed to design its own area, giving the halls an inconsistent, jagged feel. Spain, for instance, placed an old edition of
Don Quixote
alongside a piano and mosaic floor tiles. Russia displayed silver necklaces next to malachite caskets. Jurors, charged with evaluating one country's technological progress and quality of goods against another, were befuddled. Critics pounced on the gaffe. “There
was no single system. Each country used its own ideas of how to organize the exhibition. That is why it was impossible to compare countries in a sense of industrial development,” wrote one Russian critic.
³

Smirnov was at a loss, too, sorting through the melee in his designated division, the Department of Agricultural and Food Products. An estimated 282 exhibitors from Russia attended, showing everything from jams to cigars to champagnes. Given his penchant for order, Smirnov must have been underwhelmed. Presumably, his bottles arrived on time, thanks to his efficiency and good planning, and somehow amid the chaos he found a way to get them into a prime position. Scores of visitors and jurors alike would be hard-pressed to miss his wares. The vodka maker, like his mentor, Uncle Grigoriy, always understood the importance of location.

Smirnov must have felt a sense of elation. He had arrived in Vienna as a novice. He did not know the city nor the exhibition nor the language. He may even have had trouble finding his own name in the German index of participants, where Pyotr Smirnov was Peter Smirnoff. Still, he had thus far managed to outmaneuver more experienced entrants—and was awed by much of what he saw, according to a book commissioned by his great-great-grandson, Boris. “Vienna astonished him with its abundance of music, flowers and love of life. Wearing a European suit, the Moscow merchant walked around the exposition grounds, glancing at the wine booths. What and how were they selling?”
⁴

Matters in Vienna were shaping up nicely for the former serf. Back home in Moscow, though, circumstances were growing grim. Nataliya had delivered a baby boy, born April 8, on Easter Sunday. His name was Nikolay. The Smirnovs would not lose this child, but the delivery had not gone well. According to church records, Nataliya had developed a nasty infection following Nikolay's birth that left her exhausted, feverish, and at
times, delusional. The condition was all too common—and its outcome was just as well known. The doctors were powerless to stop the disease that raged through Nataliya's body.

The opening of the exhibition was just days away when Smirnov likely heard the news. His head must have been spinning. He was delighted to have another boy. But Nataliya was dying, perhaps already dead. Smirnov, thousands of miles away, could do nothing.

He faced an untenable dilemma: that of choosing between his family and deep-seated religious convictions, and his towering business aspirations. Both options were fraught with difficulties. Emperor Francis Joseph himself was scheduled to appear on opening day to tour the halls, so it was a unique opportunity to catch the eye of royalty. The emperor's endorsement would indeed be invaluable in promoting Smirnov's liquor to the nobility.

On the other hand, the vodka maker had obligations to fulfill. Nataliya had been a beloved wife, mother, business partner, and trusted confidante. She had sculpted the Smirnov family, which now included six children ranging in age from a newborn to eleven years, into a solid, cohesive unit. Her gentle, warm nature had been an essential counterweight to Smirnov's own strict and rigid approach to parenthood. Without her, the vodka maker would have difficulty finding his footing at home. Even worse, if Smirnov did not follow the raft of religious rituals required after a spouse's death, his reputation might suffer. His priest, fellow parishioners, business associates, and family members might not understand this sin—or forgive it.

Smirnov hesitated. He embodied the Russia of yesterday as well as the modern Russia. He often found himself challenged by these polar forces, making decisions based on the overwhelming ambition and traditions that guided so much of what he did. No one knows which path Smirnov chose to take in this instance. But six days after Nikolay's birth, Nataliya, at the age of thirty,
was dead. By the time Smirnov received the news, she was probably already in the ground.

Smirnov's choice had been mercifully made for him. Ever the pragmatist, he pushed through his grief and fulfilled his responsibilities as a business owner. He had already missed the funeral and a commemorative dinner held three days after Nataliya's death. He could not make it home in time for another meal held nine days after death. Arseniy and an assortment of relatives and friends were probably managing the situation without him.

Smirnov, as a compromise, probably initially kept to his schedule. He would attend the inaugural event, wearing the requisite white tie and black tails. He would do all he could to attract attention to his products and corner as many officials as possible to make his case. But then, Smirnov would cut his visit to Vienna short, returning to Moscow as widower. He would be seen in nothing but black and be home in time for the most sacred of occasions, the fortieth-day commemoration of his wife's death. It would be then, according to the Russian Orthodox Church, when Nataliya's final resting place would be determined. The family would pray for her salvation.

The vodka maker again probably called upon his time as a serf to help him cope. He had spent years in his village perfecting the art of unflinching emotional control. No one would see his inner turmoil or debilitating grief. People around him would see only what Smirnov wished them to see—the next vodka purveyor to the tsar.