The King of Vodka (4 page)

Enforcement of the law was, however, difficult. Indeed, it was almost nonexistent. Like so many other clashes of conscience in Russia, this one proved easy to overlook—as long as certain financial arrangements were made. Ivan, for instance, was a chief benefactor at St. Maksim's. He contributed funds to renovate the church, and cultivated good relations with local officials, working for a time with the police as chief of a neighborhood watch group whose job it was to report on suspicious or illegal activities by local merchants. This relationship, which likely included financial payoffs or offerings of free liquor, ensured that Ivan received preferential treatment when it came to his own business dealings.

Varvarka Street, it turns out, was the epitome of contradictions. But so, too, was Pyotr. The street and the young man were unusual mixtures of devout religion, ferocious merchantry, and incessant booze making. They made a perfect couple. Pyotr had found his launching pad.

 

H
E AND
V
ENEDIKT
made their way to the fourth block of Varvarka where Ivan lived. His uncle, brother, and cousins lived together—eleven of them—in Ivan's humble but ample home. The upstairs served as the living quarters while the street level and basement worked as a wine cellar and shop. Here customers could buy and drink wine and other spirits, including vodka. In those days, vodka was sold by the pail, bottle, or
shtof
, which equaled about one-tenth of a pail or 1.2 liters. Prices varied, of course, depending on the quality and way in which the drink was sold. But generally, a shtof could be had for as little as sixty cents and as much as $1.50. Ivan sold only drinks in his establishment. He did not have a license to sell food.
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This house/bar/shop was to be Pyotr's home. He settled in and got to work. Having made it to Moscow without incident, he was eager to show Ivan that he was no ordinary teenager. Pyotr, when it came to the ins and outs of tavern life, was an old pro—Grigoriy had taught him well. He served drinks, washed glasses, and mopped floors. He hauled whatever needed hauling. Pyotr proved his worth—and potential—in no time. Ivan, sensing his nephew's drive and quick mind, also put him to work in his shop in Gostiniy Dvor. The shop was more like a small room or stall, and it was filed between hundreds of others in Gostiniy Dvor's mall-like setup. Ivan sold liquor, to be sure, but he also likely sold tobacco and kefir, a distinctly Russian drink made of sour milk. He did not trade goods at Red Square. In the nineteenth century, the cobblestoned square was the purview of food peddlers, those who mainly sold cakes and sweets. It was also a gathering place for large celebrations and feasts. Alcohol was not a welcome commodity there.

Pyotr's natural intensity, ambition, and focus seemed to thrive in Moscow. He noted how goods were priced, how they were marketed, why people bought what they did. He paid attention to it all, including Uncle Ivan's penchant for vodka—even though it, like so many other things, was specifically forbidden.

Since the time of Catherine the Great in the eighteenth century, only state-owned distilleries and the gentry could produce vodka legally. The land-owning nobility received this privilege in 1765, which included a pass on taxes that accompanied liquor production. The law, eventually repealed in 1863, rarely stopped anyone from partaking in Russia's great pastime. Villagers made their own home brews. And city businessmen, intent on earning a decent living, could find no better place to apply their entrepreneurial zeal than the nation's pervasive vodka culture.

Villagers and businessmen alike got away with this criminal behavior, for the most part, because it was simply too difficult—and too unpopular—to stop the vodka traffic. Officials happily
accepted favors from the would-be felons. Peasants and the bourgeoisie frequented unsanctioned shops and pubs, hoping to buy better, cheaper vodka. And the tsar, who did not want to anger the lower classes by cutting off liquor sources, was willing to let things be.

The situation, complex and corrupt, was one of many that paved the way for some of the most capitalistic advancements the nation had seen. Ivan, by now a well-respected, even prominent businessman, was only too happy to take advantage of the moment, bringing his sons and nephews along with him for the lucrative ride.

 

P
YOTR WAS GAINING
valuable experience and earning more money than he had ever had. He was moving quickly through boyhood, maturing into a dashing, lanky man, with eyes that seemed to reach into the soul of anyone who could sustain his penetrating gaze. The fuzz on his face turned brittle, offering up the seeds for the dark, well-cropped beard that Pyotr would wear throughout most of his adult life. Within the community of serfs and beyond, Pyotr presented an attractive package. He was smart, ambitious, and determined. More than that, he could read, even write, albeit not well, according to his signed documents. This outside persona, combined with the fiercely private and reserved side of Pyotr Smirnov, made for a clean canvas on which people could sketch their own portraits of the man behind the handsome, serious face.

Perhaps that is what attracted Nadezhda Yegorova to him when they met during one of Pyotr's routine visits back home. Like so many other migrants, Pyotr regularly appeared in his village during the harvest and planting seasons. On these visits, he would carry back his earnings and present them to his father, Arseniy. As head of the family, he kept the Smirnov accounts, dividing the money as needed, always saving with an eye toward freedom.

It was likely during one of these visits that Pyotr met Nadezhda. Not much is known about her other than she was the daughter of a church deacon from a large nearby village and a couple of years older than Pyotr. Nadezhda was also not a serf. As part of the clergy class, she sat above Pyotr's station: Clergy maintained more comfortable lifestyles, in general, than those of peasants. Pyotr and Nadezhda married on May 21, 1850, when Pyotr was just nineteen years old.

The marriage, like most at the time, was probably arranged by the family's patriarchs. They would have deemed the union a win for both sides. The Smirnovs could attach themselves to a socially superior family while the Yegorovs gained ties to people with a foothold in Moscow and with promising economic prospects. Nonetheless, this marriage was still far from traditional.

In nineteenth-century Russia, the mixing of classes was about as popular as the mixing of vodka. It simply was not done. And when it
was
done, the unions were fraught with risk. They could even be scandalous. That the Smirnovs would snub convention suggests that they were more progressive than most other peasants, at least when it furthered their own aspirations.

The same could have been said about Count Nikolay Petrovich Sheremetev, whose romance with one of his serfs is perhaps the most infamous account of a mismatched coupling and its tragic ramifications. As the son and grandson of great men who were part of the inner circle of Russian royalty from Peter the Great to Catherine the Great, Nikolay was the epitome of high society. The Sheremetevs were the largest landowners in Russia, except for the tsar, and they had an army of more than 200,000 serfs. Their palaces were legendary and opulent, full of the finest European furnishings and the grandest artworks.

Nikolay carried on the family's noble tradition. He held the titles of count, senator, and marshal at various stages in his life. He was also a personal friend of Tsar Pavel I, dating back to their childhoods. Like his father, Nikolay was a leading patron
of the arts, building opera houses, establishing theaters and troupes, and launching special drama schools aimed at educating serf children.

Privately, Nikolay was every bit as notorious a playboy as some of his aristocratic brethren. He maintained a harem of serfs, women who often traveled with him and serviced him in any way he chose. Nikolay, short and thick-bodied but exceedingly charming, would peruse the rooms of his favored serf girls while they were working and drop a white handkerchief through the window of whomever he wanted to see that evening. He would then return to the room at night, satisfy his sexual desires and, before leaving, ask that his handkerchief be returned.
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Nikolay's promiscuity was nothing unusual for a noble, but his relationship with Praskovya was. She had come to sing for Nikolay when she was just seven years old. He was twenty-four. Nikolay was mesmerized by the girl's melodious voice and delicate features, never mind that she was the daughter of a serf blacksmith. Sheremetev wanted to transform this child into a world-class actress and operatic diva. First, as he did with all his favorite serf actresses, Sheremetev changed Praskovya's surname. He always preferred to call his starlets by names derived from precious stones. So Kovalyova became Zhemchugova, a name derived from
zhemchug
, meaning pearl. Nikolay saw to it that his jewel was educated by the best teachers money could buy. It did not take long for the girl to become one of the most beloved sopranos in all of Russia and a favorite of the emperor.

Praskovya matured into an enchanting young woman. She was a natural beauty, with dark hair and milky white skin. It is not clear when Nikolay's admiration for her artistic talents bloomed into a deep love, but that is what happened. The two had a tortured, secret affair, forbidden to show the true passion between them. It was not until Praskovya fell ill with tuberculosis that Nikolay overcame his devotion to society's mores. He freed his serf and then, in secret, married her on November 6, 1801.

Sadly, the union was brief. Praskovya died from tuberculosis just two years later—three weeks after giving birth to the couple's only child, a son named Dmitriy.

Sheremetev shocked Russian society by disclosing the marriage in a letter to the tsar after his wife's death and asking that his son be recognized as his rightful heir. He also claimed that his wife had been a descendant of Polish nobility, a fiction he hoped would soften the blows he suspected might follow as the news of his marriage became public. It did not. Abandoned by his upper-crust friends, with few attending his wife's funeral or expressing condolences, Nikolay died lonely and bitter in 1809. He summed up his anguish, writing “I thought I had friends who loved me, respected me, and shared my pleasures. But when my wife's death put me in an almost desperate state, I found few people to comfort me and share my sorrow.”
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The match between Pyotr and Nadezhda, was not nearly as controversial as some more famous love stories, but it was, nonetheless, unconventional. They were from distinctly different classes—and she was the older of the two. It is possible that they married simply because it was what their families ordered them to do. But it is also possible that Pyotr and Nadezhda shared a deep passion and love.

For whatever reason, they carried on, like so many others, at a distance. Women often remained in the villages while their husbands worked in larger towns and cities. In Moscow, men outnumbered women by almost two to one. Still, Pyotr and Nadezhda were together enough to produce their first child, a boy named Nikolay, on December 4, 1852. He died more than two months later from epilepsy, as church records show, a common affliction and cause of infant deaths at the time. Nadezhda was particularly shaken by the loss. She never got pregnant again and succumbed to a sudden fever just three years later.

Pyotr, at only twenty-four, had buried a son and a wife. He
threw himself into work, drowning his sorrows in the constant motions of daily living. He also stayed abreast of another politically pressing matter—the Crimean War. It was a devastating conflict that pitted Russia against a coalition comprised of the United Kingdom, France, the Ottoman Empire, and the Kingdom of Sardinia. The dispute stemmed from unresolved issues in the Middle East, including the question of who would control some of the region's holiest places. The consequences of this war, which produced one of Russia's worst military defeats, would prove pivotal to the future of Russia—and to the Smirnovs as well.

 

R
USSIA WAS DEVASTATED
in the three-year Crimean battle. It lost 259,000 people to a better-financed, more sophisticated, well-trained enemy. While Russia still used flinty smoothbore muskets, its rivals fired the latest long-range rifled muskets. While Russia relied on a fleet of sailing vessels, its opposition sent a squadron of the more-modern screw-propelled warships. While the coalition was made up of skilled military leaders and loyal, well-trained foot soldiers, the Russian Army consisted largely of peasants and serfs called up to serve just as war broke out. They often fought for days without proper supplies or reinforcements because the country lacked a rail system that connected the economic and population centers with the battlefields.

The famous 349-day siege of Sevastopol in 1854–55, in which a young Tolstoy fought, was a crushing blow to Russia's esteem and international reputation—even though Russian soldiers held the city for nearly a year. In that battle, the Russians were overwhelmed; the technical shortcomings of the armory and national infrastructure were no longer a subject of wonder, they were an internally recognized fact. By the end of the Crimean War in 1856, the military powers of the Allies (British, French,
Turkish) had humiliated Russia's antiquated force—and bankrupted its treasury.

Tsar Nikolay I had not prepared his nation for the confrontation. He had been too preoccupied with maintaining his military, monitoring an array of international conflicts, and attending to the inner workings of his own bulging government. The Russian bureaucracy swelled by some 40,000 people during his reign. So the tsar never fully grasped the idea that his country, still dominated by an agrarian economy, had fallen behind the rest of the world. The Crimean War made it impossible to overlook any longer.

That realization, coupled with a regime change at the end of the war, offered the masses their first real hope of reform. Aleksander II, at age thirty-six, took control of Russia from his father in 1855. He was an educated, sensitive man who understood his country in a way Nikolay had not. He saw complacency among the gentry; he recognized an inadequate education system. He even observed the inability of millions of serfs to improve their own well-being—or the nation's—under the status quo. Indeed, the restlessness of the underclasses had already bubbled to the surface, led by peasants who had volunteered for the army with the understanding that they would be granted freedom when the battles ended. When this did not happen, people took to the streets, and protests against the tsar and aristocracy erupted after the war.
⁵
They demanded better treatment and screamed for freedom.