The King of Vodka (15 page)

P
yotr Smirnov was a man motivated by the end game. He thrived on the very act of striving, strategically assessing his current circumstance and then looking beyond it to pinpoint his next maneuver. The proverbial carrot was ever-present, essential to his continuous cycle of advancement. It was how he had reached the pinnacle of his industry, the unlikeliest of champions among a sea of staunch rivals.

Now with the purveyor title secured, Smirnov found himself in unfamiliar territory. His steady and indefatigable climb to the top of the mighty vodka world looked to have crested. For so long, this quest had shaped his every move, from philanthropic endeavors to exhibition appearances to the selection of a spouse. It fueled his drive and provided structure where none existed. Of course, there would be more medals to win, more honors to obtain, more money to be made. But Smirnov seemed to no longer crave them. He dominated the vodka trade, employing more than a third of all the industry's employees in the Moscow
Province, and producing more than two-and-a-half times more liquor than his nearest local competitor. His expansive operation, which included products made from some three hundred recipes, grossed 3.2 million rubles yearly, nearly two-thirds of all the commercially sold alcohol in the metropolis.
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With such a commanding presence, Smirnov needed new inspiration. At the age of fifty-six, he was entering the back-stretch of his career. His rise had come during a unique period when Russian serfs, the powerless, faceless underbelly of the population, had gained their freedom. A shift toward rights for the masses had followed, as the tsar had undertaken steps to modernize and democratize his nation. Merchants, too, had enjoyed a rebirth of sorts, transitioning from the scourges of society into wealthy, influential, and philanthropic businessmen. By contrast, nobles and landowners, the dominant figures of the ages had had to accept somewhat lesser roles. The rigid hierarchy over which they had reigned was branded by an increasingly vocal chorus as outdated and backward. Class lines had blurred like smudged ink.

But a new tsar was at the helm, and Smirnov could see the pendulum swinging away from him. He had become a master at reading the machinations of his nation and its leaders, using them to guide his own conduct and plot his own course. Smirnov knew, before many others, that within a handful of years he would be facing a far more adversarial government and a far more critical populace.

Aleksander III was grappling with a huge budget deficit stemming from a series of poor harvests, excessive bureaucratic and military expenditures, and sluggish progress in the industrial sectors. The country was in financial trouble. “Weakness in the economy all over Russia has reached an enormous scale,” concluded one newspaper.
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In late 1886, the tsar sent for his new finance minister, Ivan Vyshnegradskiy, a descendant of clergy with a keen business mind, and demanded a solution be
found. It did not take long for Vyshnegradskiy to propose one. Among other things, the minister suggested the introduction of a vodka and tobacco monopoly. The idea had been floated in previous years but this time, it quickly gained momentum, playing into the widespread, long-standing notion of the state as all-knowing.

From a certain perspective, even Smirnov had to see the proposition had merit and potent support. The aristocracy, the primary beneficiaries of the vodka trade before the excise tax was implemented in 1863, had grown strident about the need for change. Along with state officials, they grumbled that the liquor industry was more corrupt than ever. Distillers, vodka makers, and retailers, they charged, had grown adept at hiding their true production levels and sales figures, a situation that meant the government was not collecting a substantial amount of taxes it was due. Moreover, they argued that the quality of liquor was slipping, that it was either too watered down or spiked with harmful chemicals and additives. Monopoly proponents claimed that having the government take over responsibility for the liquor trade would not only prop up the treasury but also rid the industry of greedy cheats and scoundrels.

If these had been the only motivations for the monopoly push, Smirnov might have found himself supporting or even promoting the drive. After all, the state would be doing his dirty work, eliminating unscrupulous producers of fake Smirnov booze as well as the small-time illegal manufacturers. Government control and stiffer taxes would have reduced the number of vodka makers overall and consolidated liquor sales, most likely in Smirnov's favor. But unfortunately for Smirnov, there was much more heft to this debate.

The conservative, pro-autocracy press, which was airing the abuses of the excise tax program, was also calling for a return to firm imperial control. Articles characterized the state's previous efforts to combat alcoholism and reform the vodka trade
as failures. More and more editorials appeared supporting the monopoly as an essential fix for a ballooning moral and health crisis. They took inspiration from similar, anti-alcohol efforts in other European countries, such as Switzerland, Germany, and France. They also looked to raw data, often considered unreliable or contradictory, to support their convictions. Russia, for instance, experienced five times the number of deaths related to alcohol from 1870 to 1887 than France did even though statistics showed per capita consumption of liquor in France was higher.
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Nonetheless, high society, backed by growing numbers of clergy, medical experts, temperance advocates, and state officials, believed excessive drinking was a key contributor to Russia's ills.

Lev Tolstoy, perhaps Russia's most famous private citizen, held that viewpoint. Tolstoy wrote endlessly about the evils of drink and other immoral behaviors, proselytizing his positions of abstinence to anyone who would listen. Tolstoy contended that 90 percent of all crimes were committed by drunk perpetrators and that half of all women lost their virginity while intoxicated. He came to this conclusion, in part, after overhearing a cab driver discussing a crime. “It would be a shame to do that if one were not drunk,” the driver reasoned.
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The comment was an epiphany for Tolstoy, convincing him that people planning to engage in criminal conduct used liquor to steel themselves for the task. It let them be free to rob, rape, murder, or commit other heinous acts they could not carry out while sober. “They drink and they smoke, not from boredom, not to become merry, not because it is pleasant, but in order to stifle their conscience,” Tolstoy concluded, recalling his own feelings and conduct during the Crimean War.

The novelist had a point. A study by a respected Russian academic looked at the connection between consumed spirits and unlawful activities over a period of ten years. He concluded that
there was a 10 percent increase in crimes carried out by men who had been drinking and a 25 percent rise among women who had done the same.
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The relationship between alcohol abuse and criminal acts or violence was especially notable in poorer communities or at factories. “They punch, slash, and beat each other for no particular reason. Life is cheap. If a fight starts, you can expect a murder, especially during holidays. The young people here are inclined to behave like hooligans. They often gather at the various mill towns and organize mass brawls. All this has become a daily phenomenon.”
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To Tolstoy, the evidence was incontrovertible: Russians were drowning in liquor, destroying themselves one bottle at a time. In 1887 he publicly renounced drinking and launched the grassroots Union Against Drunkenness, one of the first national sobriety movements. A handful of others cropped up, too, but none had the punch of Tolstoy's. He was a public figure, beloved and admired by an impressive number of his countrymen. His activities were widely covered in newspapers and well known outside his small village of Yasnaya Polyana. Even among the many who opposed his views, Tolstoy's words carried weight and ignited passionate debate.

Thanks to Tolstoy and conservative rants, Smirnov was likely on edge. He could see that vodka was viewed both as the solution to and the cause of Russia's many ills. He realized it was only a matter of time before the monopoly would take hold, threatening his business empire and his lavish lifestyle. Smirnov needed to consider carefully how to proceed in this emerging, treacherous environment. His relationship with the Imperial Palace would shelter him some from the coming storms—as would his hard-earned, lofty reputation. But it would not be enough to ward off a financially needy government, a growing chorus of anti-alcohol proponents, or a citizenry who increasingly viewed his industry as dirty, corrupt, and immoral.

 

B
Y NECESSITY
, S
MIRNOV
was in transition. He was evolving from a man in pursuit of a future into a man bent on preserving his future. Never before had his private interests clashed so directly with the positions of the tsar. Given Smirnov's patriotic disposition and that in the eyes of the aristocracy and state, he was still an ex-serf, the vodka maker had limited options. He could not speak out against the vodka monopoly. Such a move would brand him as a rebel, or worse, an anti-tsarist. He would be seen as the worst kind of capitalist, a profiteer at the expense of the less fortunate. As a purveyor to the court, he could not survive such a hit to his reputation, nor could he risk leaving the impression that he cared more for his own livelihood and future than he did for Mother Russia. Smirnov would almost surely lose his royal support—and with that loss a large stream of reliable revenue from the Imperial Court.

He also could not highlight his own drinking habits to improve his stature. Smirnov was never known to drink to excess. His personal practices and the watchful eye he kept over his employees to discourage alcoholic binges would have pleased the government, which was interested in teaching people to drink with restraint and common sense. Flaunting a teetotaling image, however, could have been interpreted as a haughty act and might offend a slew of Smirnov's best customers, the rowdy imbibers, mostly peasants and blue-collar consumers, to whom he still catered.

Smirnov, being Smirnov, could not sit by idly either. He embarked on an inconspicuous, multipronged strategy that was neither openly political nor confrontational. It was purely personal, advantageous to Smirnov's agenda alone. He would stay undeniably loyal to the tsar while creating an image so impeccably moral and devoutly Christian that few could claim it was otherwise. In this way, Smirnov must have believed he would make
out better than all other liquor manufacturers and retain his privileged position when the inevitable monopoly became reality.

It was a calculated bet—and the only one Smirnov must have determined he could reasonably make. In 1888 Smirnov applied for and received the title of Commercial Councillor.
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It was a prestigious, eighty-eight-year-old honor that represented the highest distinction a merchant could receive. Granted primarily for outstanding charitable giving, its broader meaning was what Smirnov valued most now. Recipients were judged to be successful, prominent experts in their chosen industries. They were held to the highest professional standards and placed within an elite group of upstanding philanthropists.

Smirnov ramped up his charitable activity, too, giving funds to a variety of causes, including those associated with and supported by the Imperial Court or aristocracy. Having already received his first award, the Order of St. Stanislav, third degree, Smirnov decided to pursue the Order of St. Anna, third degree, an award named after Peter the Great's daughter, Anna. To obtain this award, Smirnov had upped his contributions to the Moscow Court Primary College, a trade school also backed by the tsar. Smirnov wrote that his donations were made “to support children by all possible means in their studies in crafts and trade…by organizing scholarships for the best male pupils and best female pupils. In this way, children will have a chance to continue their education and to prepare for useful labor.”
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Within a short time, Smirnov received the award, another outward sign that he was no ordinary, low-class merchant.

Smirnov sought to emphasize his faith, too. He had always been a Christian, attending church regularly, contributing to its financial needs, and passing on its teachings to his children. Like many merchants, he was also a collector of religious icons. One icon was particularly precious to Smirnov. His father had brought it with him when he came to Moscow. Its image, representing the head of Christ, was based on a story that when
Christ wiped his face with a towel, his features remained imprinted on the cloth. In Smirnov's antique wood painting, two angels held the corners of the sacred towel. The icon was placed in a luminous golden frame weighing more than five pounds, according to the recorded memories of his son Vladimir. At the beginning of every year, both Arseniy and Smirnov added a precious jewel to the frame, such as a pearl or sapphire. Smirnov hung the heirloom in a prominent place in his home.
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This piety, however, was not enough to win the admiration and open support of clergy and other religious leaders. For that, Smirnov would need to go far beyond routine gestures. So he donated money to restore a shrine to a Russian saint in one of the Kremlin cathedrals. He also took on the prestigious position of churchwarden in not one but two cathedrals located near the Kremlin.
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The job, which involved managing the churches' business affairs as well as overseeing and paying for its structural upkeep, was a typical route for prominent merchants. Merchants served as churchwardens in more than half of Moscow's churches and cathedrals in the last quarter of the nineteenth century. For Smirnov in particular, this undertaking was clever and essential. “Personal participation of the entrepreneurial elite in church life became a demonstration of religiousness on the one hand and a means of strengthening the social image on the other,” wrote one researcher.
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The peasants' view was more cynical. “The heavier the sin on the merchant's conscience for abusing his countryman…the louder are the bells he cases and the bigger are the churches he builds.” To them, it was a cure-all for sinful acts of capitalism, an antidote to self-interest.