The King of Vodka (16 page)

Emphasizing his devotion to Christianity turned out to be timely. Religious persecution in Russia, namely anti-Semitism, was rampant and on the rise. The tsar had already forbidden Jews from residing in St. Petersburg, and in 1891 the general governor of Moscow ordered many Jews expelled from his city, noting that it was time to “secure Moscow from Jews.”
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Some
20,000 Jews were sent out into the suburbs and beyond, along with criminals and other unsavory characters. Smirnov probably knew some of these people personally. Many Jews worked in the spirits industry, as distillers, beer makers, or retailers. Keeping himself separate from their troubles might not have been Smirnov's aim; he may not even have supported these bigoted initiatives. But it was a political plus for Smirnov to be seen as a devotee to the favored national religion.

Smirnov then turned to his immediate family and to his eldest son, Pyotr Petrovich, in particular. Russia's raging vodka debate necessitated the expedient grooming of a competent, socially adept successor. Smirnov recalled all too well the difficulties he had encountered at his launching when he lacked both the proper pedigree and the appropriate social credentials. He was determined to protect his son from similar humiliation. The younger Smirnov, just twenty, was far better prepared than his father. He had not only inherited Smirnov's intellect and knack for business but also had had the advantage of a first-rate education. He knew the family business, having been engaged in his father's enterprise, working alongside him in the factory and back office. What the younger Pyotr lacked, though, was a public portfolio. Smirnov decided to sponsor his son for a spot on the Committee on Beggars. Pyotr Petrovich became an agent of the organization in June 1889. Smirnov then turned his attention to his employees.

 

S
MIRNOV WANTED TO
be certain, to the extent possible, that no one working in his factory or shops could embarrass him or bring shame upon his enterprise. That is one reason why Smirnov had always kept a hand in hiring, honing a simple yet revealing screening process. According to family lore and a book written by Smirnov's descendants, a typical exchange went as follows: Smirnov, working in his second-floor office, would come downstairs to meet an applicant for the position of, say,
clerk. After a few pleasantries, he would offer his would-be employee a drink. “Would you like some?” he'd ask. The applicant would not hesitate. “No, no, Pyotr Arsenievich,” he'd say. “God forbid. On my word, I don't drink, sir.”
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The man, more than likely having heard about the vodka king's conservatism, was trying to make a good impression. Smirnov would consider the man's firm refusal before continuing on with the interview. He then asked the applicant a routine roster of questions, inquiring about his background, experience, and hopes for the future. Smirnov paid little attention to the predictable responses, preferring instead to gaze at the carafe on the table before him. “Sure you won't change your mind?” Smirnov would say, smiling warmly. “Too bad you're refusing. This is very good vodka.”

Feeling confident about their exchange and certain he would be hired, the man relented. “Well, Pyotr Arsenievich, I see you could even convince a dead man. Go ahead and pour,” he would say, returning the smile. The man would swallow some of Smirnov's fine vodka, all the while waiting for an official nod from his future boss. Instead, Smirnov would stand, his words unequivocal. “Why were you fooling with me?” he'd demand. ‘ “I don't drink, I don't drink.' Why didn't you just say in the first place, ‘Please, pour?' The way I see it, there's no doing business with you. You don't keep your word.” With that, Smirnov would spin around and head back to his office. The applicant would be left alone, bewildered and shaken. It was quintessential Smirnov: Unwavering in his conviction, unforgiving in his critique.

 

W
HILE
S
MIRNOV AND
his many liquors and wines were at the forefront of Russia's robust alcohol business, they, like other
alcohol producers and their wares, were increasingly under attack. It was not just the notion of a monopoly that threatened them. The real trouble stemmed from the state's pursuit of the monopoly. The Imperial Court was not about to tamper with a commodity so central to the Russian culture and economy without first convincing its people that a change was vital. M. G. Kotelnikov, an official who worked on the monopoly issue said the proposed reform “touched the interests of a considerable number of businessmen and people. It was determined that it was necessary to shape public opinion so it would favor the establishment of a wine [vodka] monopoly.”
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The tsar's offensive, launched over a period of several years in the late 1880s and early '90s, was as direct, as compelling, and as comprehensive a marketing campaign as anything Smirnov himself might have hatched. It was like an elite military offensive, flawless in its execution, overpowering in its scope and message. The government wisely de-emphasized its primary reason for pursuing the monopoly: money. It instead portrayed itself as rescuer, the people's protector against unscrupulous liquor mavericks who encouraged excessive drinking, poisoned the products peddled, and hid profits that rightly belonged to Russia and its people.

Mikhail Fridman, a noted Russian economist close to the minister of finance and who later wrote a definitive work on the vodka monopoly published in 1914, summed up the government's stated intentions as full of altruism and a kind of fatherly love. The minister, Fridman wrote, had a strong belief that “all measures undertaken by the State to regulate drinking were of a palliative character; that free wine [vodka] trade undermined the economic and moral power of the country and its population and that it devastated and demoralized the people. Private wine traders negatively influenced people by inducing them to compete against one another to see who could drink the most. And they willingly sold wine on credit, allowing people to secure their purchases with personal belongings, future harvests or future wages.”
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There was a great deal of truth to the charges, but they reflected only a small portion of the industry, the most deviant, immoral elements. Moreover, they completely ignored upstanding players, such as Smirnov, as well as the state's very real, very dire fiscal motivations. Still, the government managed to persuade the masses to see the situation its way. One of its most convincing arguments emerged after it commissioned for the first time scientific studies of alcohol, particularly vodka. The idea was to analyze the contents of the liquor and uncover an array of dishonest or harmful practices. That the quality of liquor was a perennial issue, including when it was under the government's control decades before, was irrelevant. The state needed to demonstrate that such wrongdoing was rampant.

A group of pure-vodka distillers known as the Distillers' Congress proved an unlikely source for the government in making its case. These producers did not like the use of additives in vodka as it cut into the demand manufacturers like Smirnov had for their unadulterated product. Watered-down or fruit-infused nalivkas did not require as much alcohol as did pure vodka. So, like the government, the Distillers' Congress saw potential in underwriting scientific studies that might uncover the unhealthy or unsavory practices during the production process.

A hygiene commission organized at Moscow University undertook a number of these studies. Its members, made up of academics and health professionals, were responsible for monitoring the quality of consumer products. One study looked at thirteen factories producing vodka. It found that the typical manufacturing process yielded fusel oil as a by-product. The fusel oil, deemed harmful to a person's health and specifically barred by the Russian military's code of laws, was making its way into the vodka consumers were drinking. It was most easily detectable in the cheapest liquors because of its strong smell. But it was present in all the alcohol tested. Other additives dis
covered to varying degrees in flavored vodkas included ethane diacid, sulfuric acid, and aniline dye, which was linked to stomach, mouth, and kidney maladies. The Distillers' Congress did not hide its disgust. “Then this slush is poured into bottles with beautiful labels…. Then it is baptized with names such as raspberry nalivka and sent first to the Moscow market and then, by railroads, to all ends of Russia,” wrote one of its members.
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Another review tested only nalivkas, which were particularly popular with the aristocracy. Fusel oil was again found along with fuchsin, a dye that could contain arsenic, cochineal, a rather benign crimson dye additive, and aniline. Indeed, aniline was used as a coloring agent in Smirnov's raspberry nalivka #15. “All nalivkas, without exception, were more or less impure,” reported Fyodor F. Erisman, a leading scientist specializing in hygiene and sanitary conditions, who authored the state-sponsored report on vodka.
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In the same review, the commission looked at the quantity of spirit used in vodka recipes. It found that most of these drinks were made with about 25 percent alcohol, much less than the 40 percent strength found in straight, unflavored vodka. Smirnov's cherry
nastoyka,
for instance, had 24 percent alcohol.
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Nalivkas and nastoykas, which were mixed with water, fruit, or herbs, were not expected to have as high an alcohol content—and might have arguably been less harmful than more potent beverages. Nonetheless, researchers cast their findings in a negative light. “Cheap nalivkas have extremely poor alcohol quality. If you let the flavor evaporate and then rub the liquid in the palm of your hand, you'll feel fusel oil, which is an undoubtedly harmful substance. The distilling industry must do its best to get rid of it by all possible means.”
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Despite the specific derogatory references to Smirnov's beverages, intended to demonstrate that even the most prestigious vodka producers were guilty of using hazardous chemicals in their goods, Smirnov also got some favorable news from the
hygiene commission. It conducted a separate analysis in 1892 of the products offered by the three most prominent, most expensive vodka makers, including Smirnov and one of his chief rivals, Popov. The intent of the review, again, was to show that premium goods also contained unhealthy ingredients. Smirnov's drinks, though not free of additives, were found to be the purest and of the highest quality. Even his cheapest, most popular vodka, #21, was deemed better than similar products from his closest competitors.

Smirnov came out better than most in the group's assessment, perhaps good enough for him to claim that he was making the purest vodka in Russia. In the current climate, though, this distinction was dubious. The government's drive toward monopolization was on—and it was unstoppable. The only consolation for Smirnov may have been his ability to distance himself from the most corrupt businesses in the liquor industry. The government, to buttress its agenda, intended to highlight this group of bad actors. The findings from the Erisman report and Distillers' Congress went a long way toward proving their unsavory practices. Beyond that, the ministry shined a light on the enormous profit margins of the alcohol trade. It noted that a pail of wine sold for more than six rubles, but it cost only about half that to make the pail, including all taxes. “The rest of the money goes into a wine trader's pocket.”
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Before the Ministry of Finance could claim that money for its own account, it decided it would be well served to acknowledge the dangers associated with Russia's cultural alcoholism. The state echoed Tolstoy to an extent, encapsulating drunkenness as the enemy of all that was moral and right, a hurdle to productivity, economic stability, and civility. Unlike the famed author, though, the Imperial Palace did not preach sobriety, aiming instead to educate people about moderation. “Russians drank wrongly,” the state maintained.
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Among other things, officials wanted to promote drinking
in the home under a family's watch instead of in pubs filled with rowdy imbibers. They also intended to distract heavy drinkers by offering more sober entertainment alternatives, such as tea-rooms, theatrical performances, and public readings. The government even planned eventually to launch its own temperance organizations.

It was all rather convincing; the government's proposal for the vodka monopoly would have proceeded without a hitch had it not been for a series of unrelated blunders that diverted the attention of the tsar and his advisors, particularly the minister of finance Vyshnegradskiy. From the outset, Vyshnegradskiy, a self-made millionaire, was preoccupied with erasing the state's budget deficit and strengthening its overall economic health. His blueprint involved raising taxes, reorganizing the railroad system, increasing exports, and launching the vodka and tobacco monopolies. He hoped to prop up Russia's international profile, attracting new foreign investors and capital.

Vyshnegradskiy's plan worked—to a point. He managed to erase much of the deficit through higher taxes on sugar, tobacco, alcohol, and kerosene. He also increased tariffs on imports, adopting the strictest customs taxes in all of Europe. At the same time, Vyshnegradskiy aggressively exported the nation's abundant grain crops, doubling the amount shipped outside of Russia. Farmers raced to sell not only their surpluses but their domestic stockpiles as well, hoping to meet state-imposed deadlines and cash in on high-export bonuses to raise money to pay for all the new taxes. State revenues climbed and the value of the ruble strengthened.

Russians, namely peasants, did not share in the state's largesse. Rather, they suffered greatly under the heavy weight of mounting tax obligations and a decline in world grain prices. Their living conditions plummeted. A devastatingly paltry harvest in 1892 complicated matters further. Vyshnegradskiy had not accounted for this—or the famine that settled in throughout
Russia's central provinces. Gone was the cocky, myopic Vyshnegradskiy, who had once said of his aggressive economic plan: “We'll not eat, but we'll export.”
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