The King of Vodka (19 page)

Looking at its details, much of the reform was focused on combating drunkenness. It banned consumption in retail shops, requiring customers to leave as soon as they had completed their purchases. Liquor could be sold only in sealed bottles. Pictures of the emperor and of saints were to be posted on the walls of state wine shops. Organized sobriety was also a feature of the monopoly. In 1895, Witte established the Guardianship of Public Sobriety. Its mission was to oversee the quality and quantity of liquor sales and advocate moderation in drinking.

The problem with the state's more altruistic emphasis was that it was overshadowed by its monstrous financial appetite. When the monopoly was launched in four provinces in 1895, the government took over the wholesale and retail trade of pure vodka, making it the only legal buyer of vodka from state or private distilleries. Anyone wishing to trade other spirits in territories covered by the monopoly, such as flavored vodkas, liqueurs,
grape wines, or beer, would be permitted to do so, but they had to remit to the government 15 percent of the revenue earned. This tax resulted in a surge in state revenue. In one province alone, Ufa, income from alcohol sales grew from 2 million rubles in 1894 to 3.6 million rubles in 1895.
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“As a fiscal system, the government spirits monopoly was truly a stroke of financial genius,” wrote one observer.
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Critics pounced on the hypocrisy of the double-edged policy, blasting the state for trying to curb alcoholism as it peddled alcohol. Lenin dubbed the reform “monopoly capitalism.”
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Tolstoy's opposition to it was more cutting. Witte had tried to entice the writer into backing his, Witte's, sobriety organization, believing that Tolstoy's endorsement would lend it credibility. Tolstoy, though, refused even to meet with Witte, instead asking his brother-in-law, Aleksander Kuzminskiy, to convey his displeasure to the minister. In a letter to Kuzminskiy, Tolstoy outlined his position. “In my opinion, if the government really was making every effort for the good of the people, then the first step should be the complete prohibition of the poison which destroys both the physical and the spiritual well-being of millions of people…. Thus, the temperance societies established by a government that is not ashamed that it itself sells the poison ruining the people through its own officials seem to me to be either hypocritical, silly, or misguided—or perhaps all three.”
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Witte knew the monopoly would attract plenty of detractors, but he also knew the vast majority of Russians welcomed it. Smirnov, too, knew it and he had prepared well. When the monopoly took hold in 1895, Smirnov could see that its impact on his own operations would be negligible. The four trial provinces represented a miniscule piece of his business. The vodka maker had also sought out new avenues to reach customers. His vodka, particularly the popular #21 and other unflavored vodkas, continued to be the favorite, especially in Russia's heavily populated central provinces. It was the drink of choice for Russia's mili
tary as well after Smirnov landed a contract to provide #21 to soldiers. The drink was consumed “everywhere, in all the regiments, in the officers' canteens, in soldiers' tearooms, and also in the Russian Navy, in both the Baltic and Black Sea.”
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Smirnov also beefed up production of other liquors. Throughout the 1890s, he expanded his product menu, focusing in particular on unregulated beverages. He introduced a variety of new flavored vodkas (nastoykas), including ashberry flavor, an instant consumer favorite. He also increased his production of grape wines. This diversification, along with his new global reach, minimized the effects of the monopoly after its introduction. His business did not suffer greatly in those first years, when the monopoly covered only a handful of provinces.

The government, though, was enthused by what it saw. Witte personally toured the four provinces where the monopoly made its debut and reported back to the tsar that drunkenness was down while revenue to the state was up. The preaching of the moderation had taken hold, Witte concluded, and he told Nikolay II that “a peace came to families, harmony came to spouses…. Wives no longer have to look for their husbands in drinking places and then bring them home in a horrible condition…. There was a notable shift to a better life.”
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Such enthusiasm made the government impatient. The state initially planned to test the reform in the four provinces for three years, but the tsar, at Witte's urging, quickly scrapped the old timetable. Instead, the government accelerated the monopoly's rollout, introducing the reform in nine provinces in 1896, six in 1897, and another four in 1898, which included St. Petersburg. In the face of such an unrelenting assault, Smirnov might have given up, but that was not his nature. The government's aggressive anti-vodka campaign emboldened him, setting in motion one of the greatest and most satisfying triumphs of his life.

N
izhniy Novgorod, a commercial center located 250 miles east of Moscow, sits at the juncture of major trade routes and two grand Russian rivers, the Volga and the Oka. At the turn of the century, it took more than eleven hours to get there by train from Moscow, longer by ship. Despite the lengthy journey, most who made the trek annually, like Smirnov, did so without reservation. It was that important.

Since 1817, the city had come alive from July to September with the arrival of thousands of merchants and traders representing almost every industrial sector in the Empire. They invaded this commercial hub, hawking commodities ranging from wool to metals to rice to leather. Smirnov, who had been the largest buyer of grape wine at the Nizhniy Novgorod Fair for years, contributed to the 416 million rubles worth of transactions consummated there annually.
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“The prices established at the fair constituted the benchmark values for the entire commercial year. So important was the fair that when it was open, financial and commercial establishments often shifted their operations entirely to its territory. It was also there that the Moscow merchants carried out their largest annual transactions, thus confirming the centrality of the fair.”
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Nothing before, though, could compare to the late spring and summer of 1896 in Nizhniy Novgorod. That year the city of almost 82,000 people hosted the All-Russia Industrial and Artistic Exhibition, one of the most spectacular technical achievements in the history of the country. The tsar, Witte, and Russia's top business leaders pledged to use the exhibition, the first of its kind in fourteen years, to demonstrate to the world that the nation's economic power was vast and its industrial development expansive. It was to be the marketing event of the century, a show of fortitude so undeniable that it would inspire even the most skeptical observers to concede Russia's status as an industrial superpower. “Russia grows, its productive forces grow, and with them grows the wealth of the country, its powers, and the recognition of its strength,” proclaimed Witte at the opening of the exhibition on May 28.
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No expense had been spared to create just the right atmosphere. The government pledged 3 million rubles to pay for a new transportation system, new buildings, a modern sanitation system, pavilions for entertainment, and a variety of other attractions. Private industry contributed another 7 million rubles, constructing eye-popping exhibits and cutting-edge facilities. When all was done, the site boasted 172 separate buildings. Electric streetlights replaced kerosene lamps. A theater big enough for almost nine hundred people had been erected, complete with steam heating, electric lights, and a sophisticated ventilation system. The first funicular railway in the country had been installed there, too, which guided two trams shuttling visitors to and from the exhibition grounds. A magnificent new
park provided respite from the daily commotion, complete with fifty-one fountains and artificial ponds containing swans. “The exhibition is the most important business for the entire state, a result of activity of more than 100 million people who have been working for fifteen years, counting from the Moscow exhibition of 1882,” wrote famed writer Maxim Gorkiy, a native of Nizhniy Novgorod who covered the event for a local newspaper.
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Beyond the infrastructure, the displays were also designed to impress. Among the most technical advances unveiled at Nizhniy Novgorod was the first Russian automobile, which topped out at a speed of 13.5 miles per hour. The first hyperboloid steel tower, created by architect Vladimir Shukhov, was constructed and shown there. A tractor with a steam engine made its debut, too. Technical presentations by an array of esteemed scientists, including Mendeleyev, botanist K. A. Timiryazev, and scientist/inventor A. S. Popov were also featured. The parade of serious achievement was enough to entice a slew of foreign dignitaries, ambassadors, some 180 Americans, and nearly one million Russians.

They came to witness and evaluate Russia's industrial prowess, to be sure, but it was the most fanciful exhibits, including one by Smirnov, that truly delighted. Henry Brokar, the tsar's perfume purveyor, made columns out of transparent soap. Electric lights inside the soap lit up the structure, giving it a luminous, magical quality. He also put up a tent made out of roses carved from soap. Another exhibitor showed a belfry constructed completely out of stearin candles. There were railroad booths made out of chocolate, a grotto made of 108 different gemstones and rocks, and a two-headed eagle made out of dried fish.

Smirnov would not be outshown by these other participants, particularly not when the tsar, the empress, and Witte were among the fair's visitors. Smirnov occupied a superior position at the exhibition—at least among the sixty-six vodka makers and distillers. His display was right at the entrance to the vodka
department, signaling to everyone his supremacy in his industry. His showcase was unparalleled, a true reflection of Smirnov himself: a potent combination of master showman, ingenious marketer, and Imperial loyalist.

As visitors approached the vodka section, they were awe-struck. A colossal arch built entirely out of bottles and little wine barrels greeted them. The bottles, 3,000 of them, were the colors of the Russian national flag—white, blue, and red. Light bulbs inside those bottles flashed on and off, creating a fluorescent, glowing, and utterly patriotic spectacle. The symbolism was not lost on journalists who covered the exhibition. They wrote about Smirnov's “fiery effect.”
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Nor was it lost on the exhibition's officials. Smirnov, his exhibit, and his company received a huge write-up in the exhibition catalog. The vodka king was praised for his fine products and continuing success, particularly in the face of the liquor monopoly, which the catalog authors euphemistically described as “new conditions in the market.”
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As laudatory articles at the exhibition proved, Smirnov's business was still on a tear. His revenue now topped 17 million rubles annually, with 9 million rubles going straight into the state treasury. His pure vodka production was up to 120,000 bottles a day, or 45 million annually. This required some 3 million kilograms of charcoal per year, which was used to rectify the vodka. Smirnov contracted with seven different glassmakers, each one supplying an estimated seven million bottles a year. The 60 million labels and tags needed annually came from four printing factories. Corks alone cost 120,000 rubles each year. Smirnov's nastoykas required purchases of huge lots of raspberries, currants, strawberries, bilberries, cherries, cranberries, and ashberries. Sales of foreign and domestic grape wines also increased to 100 million bottles per year.
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There was simply no denying Smirnov's preeminence. It was on full display at the Nizhniy Novgorod exhibition—in his assigned location, in his flashing arch, in the stories carried in
newspaper, and in the fair's printed catalog. He also collected top honors again, earning the right to display another state emblem, his fourth, on his products. None of the adulation bestowed upon him during the event, though, moved Smirnov the way his brush with royalty did.

 

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18, the tsar's coronation, intended to be a magnificent celebration of his reign, turned into tragedy. Smirnov's vodka had gushed like a river at the largely symbolic event. Indeed, one-fifth of all the alcohol purchased for the occasion by the Imperial Court for its own pleasure came from Smirnov's cellars and warehouses, including four different kinds of flavored vodkas.
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On top of the tsar's elite party, more than 500,000 revelers showed up the day before the coronation for a traditional gathering held for commoners. They drank and ate throughout the night in a large outdoor field outside Moscow, all the while waiting for the moment when packaged gifts from the tsar would be distributed to the crowd. Rumors swirled among the assembled that herds of horses and cows would be given away, that fountains of beer and wine would flow, and that trained elephants would perform.

None of these rumors were true, but the anticipation, along with the drink, made people anxious and impatient. Then someone shouted: “They give it,” referring to the presents from the tsar to this subjects. The crowd went wild, pushing, shoving, and charging. Mayhem ensued, as throngs frantically chased packages thrown into the air. In the end, an estimated 2,000 people were killed in the crush, many of them women and children. The tsar's gifts, a souvenir enamel cup, a spice cake, a sausage, and some bread, offered little consolation.

Nikolay II was reportedly grief-stricken, putting even more pressure on officials to ensure his experience at Nizhniy Novgorod would be refreshing and positive. The plan was for
the tsar to arrive on July 17, spend three days touring the exhibition, meet with prominent attendees and participants, and attend a sumptuous dinner given in his honor. Smirnov, who had been commuting from Moscow to Nizhniy Novgorod since the exhibition's opening, returned to the fair with childish anticipation. He brought Mariya and his children, including his youngest daughter, nineteen-year-old Aleksandra, and five sons. In Smirnov's mind, greeting the monarch was not only an honor and a thrill, but also a duty that ought to be shared.

The weather turned foul on the day of the tsar's arrival. Until then, the summer in Nizhniy Novgorod had been quite pleasant. The days had been warm enough—but not too warm. A few small showers and breezes had kept the air clear and clean. Only once, in June, had it been hot. The air was so stifling then in the Machinery and Industrial Departments of the exhibition that glass bottles split, wax displays melted, and engines overheated. Officials reacted quickly, painting white over windows on the sunny side of the buildings and bringing in more fans.

Now, though, as the tsar approach Nizhniy Novgorod in July, officials were frantic over the thunderstorm that trailed him. The skies darkened, giving way to sheets of rain mixed with hail the size of walnuts. The downpour knocked out windows and blew over several displays at the exhibition. Despite the inconvenience, the emperor's welcome from the awaiting crowds was unabashedly enthusiastic. They cried out “Hooray!” as the royal party, comprised of Nikolay II, his wife, Empress Aleksandra Fyodorovna, and the Grand Duke Aleksey Aleksandrovich made its way from one hall to another.

Order and decorum, unlike at the coronation, ruled the majesties' tour. Everywhere the tsar and his companions went was paved in red carpet. An honorary guard made up of the young sons of prominent merchants shadowed them. Seventeen of the boys came from Moscow's leading families, such as Morozov, Mamontov, and Ryabushinskiy, while ten came from business
dynasties in Nizhniy Novgorod. They were dressed in expensive white kaftans with poleaxes on their shoulders, some made out of sterling silver. They stood in a line, motionless, as if anticipating a military style drill.

This honorary guard was an unusual, calculated move by merchants to appeal to the tsar. They wanted to demonstrate simultaneously their importance to the country's economic growth and their allegiance to Russia's traditions and heritage. An editorial in the
Volgar
, a regional newspaper, suggested that the merchant class had proven its power and loyalty to the crown more fervently than the age-old aristocracy, which was leaning increasingly toward Western ideals. “The
kupechestvo
[merchantry] has preserved the genuine Russian spirit more than any other [social estate]. Nowhere else does the national feeling appear with such strength, conviction, and breadth. Of all groups in Russia, it alone is strong also in an economic sense. There is nothing it cannot do.”
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The royal entourage was impressed with what it saw, even though they did not share the views expressed in the
Volgar
. The tsar greeted his guardians and then made his way through a sampling of the displays. The royal couple returned several times to walk through the exhibition, always guided by Minister Witte dressed in a summer coat and hat. Finally, on July 19, the tsar stood before Smirnov's flashing arch. The nature of the exchange between the tsar and Smirnov is unknown, but given standard protocol and the vodka maker's devotion to the Imperial Court, it is more than probable that Smirnov bowed deeply, perhaps even expressing his thanks and hope that the tsar and tsarina had enjoyed his exhibit. Other members in the imperial party certainly did. The Great Prince Vladimir Aleksandrovich and his wife, who later came to the exhibition, were so amused by Smirnov's showcase that their appreciation made the Moscow news.
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The tsar's tour was possibly not the only encounter with roy
alty that Smirnov had at the exhibition. The banquet for the emperor took place that same night in a building that usually housed shops and kiosks on its first floor and apartments for city officials on the second. For this occasion, the place had been transformed into something out of a fairy tale. An entirely new staircase had been constructed, with decorations representing the heroes of Russian folk tales carved into it. Columns at the bottom of the stairs were draped in velvet and gold lace. Flowers, including snow-white lilies, roses, and azaleas, were everywhere, lit up by electrical lanterns to render the petals and leaves transparent. Garlands of lights surrounded the state emblem and a makeshift throne was set up under a thick cherry-velvet canopy. The Smirnovs joined a guest list packed with 1,700 international luminaries. “The fair has never seen such glitter,” commented one observer. “Along with the tsar's family, there were almost all the ministers, ambassadors from foreign countries, the vice king of China, the diplomatic corps, the court, three general governors, and lots of various grand people.”
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To join such company on that night made clear Smirnov's eminence. Any lingering doubts the former serf or anyone else might have had simply faded away. That evening, he was a known man, a wealthy man, with his wife and children, gazing through the curling wisps of cigarette smoke, at Tsar Nikolay II. Smirnov was where he had always wanted to be: in the warm embrace of his motherland, a member of the inner circle.