Unlike today’s recreational liquors, beginning in the thirteenth century medicinal spirits were distilled from fermented grape wine lees, most likely originating in the medical school of Salerno, in the south of Italy.36 There, as throughout medieval Europe, the search for scientific knowledge was a spiritual endeavor closely tied to the Church of Rome. Accordingly, both the development and spread of distillation depended on schools and monasteries with abiding interests in philosophy and religion.
So how did distillation emigrate from pre-Renaissance Italy to the imperial court of Moscow? That’s where the Poles and the Russians can’t seem to agree. Historians credit—or blame—the colorful troubadour-turned-missionary Ramon Llull for spreading the technique to much of Europe. Before aspiring to convert Jews and Muslims to Catholicism, Llull taught Arabic and philosophy in the Franciscan convent on the Mediterranean island of Majorca off the coast of Spain. In 1290, after his missionary endeavors to North Africa ended in violent expulsion, he arrived in the north Italian city-state of Genoa, where he wrote extensively on distillation and rectification. Based perhaps on their shared interests in alchemy and Arabic, Llull teamed with physician Arnaldus de Villa Nova (Arnold of Villanova—not to be confused with the American university), who drew on his experiences treating popes, nobles, and kings to write Liber de vinis, the first medicinal book on viniculture.37 Most likely, it was Arnold of Villanova who first introduced the Arabic word al-kuhul (alcohol) into the European nomenclature through his investigation of fermented grape wines and these new distilled or “burnt” wines. In his treatise De conservanda juventute, he writes:
Burnt water also known as aqua vitae, is obtained by the distillation of wine or wine yeast. It is the subtlest portion of the wine. Some say that it is “the everlasting water”, also that, because of its sublime method of preparation, it is the “gold water” of the alchemists. Its advantages are well known. It cures many diseases, prolongs life and hence deserves to be known as aqua vitae.38
Through Arnold of Villanova this aqua vitae, or “water of life,” became known to Genoese merchants, who were intent on profiting from this mysterious new medicine. The Genoese discovered that spirits could be distilled not only from expensive wine lees but also from cheaper fermented fruits and grains. By this time the small Italian fishing village had grown into a powerhouse of naval commerce and exploration: even Christopher Columbus hailed from Genoa. By the fourteenth century aqua vitae was one of the most prized wares of apothecaries throughout Europe.39
When it came to commerce in the Mediterranean, the Genoese vied for control with their nautical rivals in Venice. Outmaneuvering the Venetians, Genoa established an alliance with the Byzantine Empire, which granted Genoese merchants the right to duty-free trade throughout Byzantium and a monopoly on commerce in the Black Sea.40
EARLY GERMAN WOODCUT PORTRAYING THE DISTILLATION OF AQUA VITAE
The science of distillation most likely came to the Slavic peoples through the bustling Genoese-controlled port city of Caffa—present-day Feodosia—on the Crimean Peninsula. In the colorful, multiethnic and multi-confessional bazaars, early Russians did a bustling trade in metals, furs, and slaves.41 Spanish explorer Pero Tafur described the “bestial” natives of Caffa, where young virgins could be—and were—bought for a measure of wine in the taverns run by the Genoese. Perhaps, then, it should come as little surprise that Russians were first introduced not only to aqua vitae in the Genoese ports but also to liquor’s close cousin—venereal disease.42
In the fourteenth century distillation could have made its way north from the Crimea across the vast grasslands, fields, and forests to Muscovy by a variety of means. Aqua vitae was the most popular potion of the alchemists and physicians who accompanied diplomats on their international missions. In his seminal work on Russian cultural history The Icon and the Axe (1966), Librarian of Congress James Billington underscores the “fact that vodka apparently came into Russia by way of the medical profession points to the importance of Western-educated court doctors as channels for the early influx of Western ideas and techniques.”43 Even Pokhlebkin suggested that the Genoese ambassador from Caffa occasionally visited Moscow en route to and from Lithuania in the late fourteenth and early fifteenth centuries—each time bringing medicinal aqua vitae.44
Beyond such sporadic visits, the practice and product of distillation likely came north to Moscow for good accompanying refugees fleeing the Mongol invasion of the Crimea, as Caffa was sacked by the Mongol khan Tamerlane in 1395.45 The monasteries of Muscovy in general, and of the Kremlin in particular, were fertile grounds for this new practice, as monks quickly transformed the imported Genoese practice of distilling aqua vitae into a mass-produceable domestic product—vodka—that could be distilled from local grains (primarily rye and wheat) and soft spring water.46 It is this combination that gives both Russian and Polish vodkas their “genuine” characteristics, if you believe the advertising slogans.
Beyond a general consensus that distillation reached Moscow by the fifteenth century, like so many things, the details are a little… fuzzy. According to a legend retold by Pokhlebkin, a Greek monk named Isidore—who learned distillation as part of a Russian church legation to Italy in the 1430s—was suspected of having divided loyalties and upon returning to Moscow was imprisoned in the Chudov Monastery of the Kremlin. Having no other raw materials than local grains, the crafty Greek created the first batch of “genuine” Russian vodka, which he then slipped to his captors, fleeing to Kiev after they passed out.
Like most of Pokhlebkin’s claims, there is absolutely no factual basis or documentation for this whimsical tale. Think: why would a suspected traitor be imprisoned in a monastery with the tools of chemistry instead of (the more conventional) punishment of being tossed in a dungeon and tortured ruthlessly? What’s more, the entire story oozes with Russian nationalist symbolism: vodka was allegedly born in the Chudov Monastery—the Monastery “of the Miracle,” which was completed in 1365 and razed by Stalin in 1929 to make way for the stolid, concrete Palace of Congresses. Although the legend cannot be taken seriously, many in Russia continue to date vodka’s origins from the 1440s based primarily on this tale.47
Another, more plausible alternative is that distillation came to Moscow not from the south, but from central and Western Europe via long-established Hanseatic trade routes to Russia’s Baltic outposts of Pskov and Novgorod. The importation of wine along this trade route has been regularly documented as far back as 1436. Forty years later, the archbishop of Novgorod presented lavish gifts to Ivan the Terrible’s grandfather—Grand Prince Ivan the Great of Moscow—including barrels of both red and white wines. While these wines were prized as fantastic luxuries, there is no mention of aqua vitae, much less vodka.48
So, where and when did vodka originate? Who was the first person to distill local grains into a potent alcoholic beverage—and was he Russian or Polish?
We may never know for sure. Anything I claim here would be speculation based on inference and conjecture, and probably no more definitive than the efforts of the “luminary” culinary Pokhlebkin, whose testament still stands as the well-thumbed reference at the Vodka Museum at Izmailovsky Park.49
Ultimately, though, it does not matter. Beyond nationalist sparring between Russians and Poles, the questions of who, where, and when aren’t nearly as important as the question of why vodka?
What we do know is that by whatever route or as a result of whoever’s handiwork, by the early sixteenth century the medicinal aqua vitae of the alchemists had already taken root as “burnt wine” or what we might recognize as beverage vodka.50
Russia would never be the same.
Why Vodka? Russian Statecraft and the Origins of Addiction
Pointing out that Russia has a serious alcohol problem may be impolite, but it isn’t particularly controversial. What outsiders see as a crude stereotype, Russians have long understood as a persistent social challenge—one that has endured through the tsarist, Soviet, and post-
Soviet eras. Still, while few histories even acknowledge Russia’s vodka problem, even fewer actually attempt to address its sources.1
Of all substances, why do Russians drink vodka? Why do they drink so much of it? And why do they drink it in such a destructive manner? Conventional answers revert to long-standing practices, the enigmatic “Russian soul,” or some other eternal, immutable, and inalienable cultural trait. And culture cannot be questioned. Still, there are very powerful political and economic forces behind the development and maintenance of such self-destructive cultural practices.
A popular belief is that Russians, Scandinavians, and others living in Nordic climes are drawn to spiritous liquors because supposedly they give motion to the blood in extreme cold. Anyone who’s been warmed by a swig of vodka on a frigid night can relate. Even Montesquieu, in his Spirit of Laws (1748), pontificated on the stark cultural differences between the spirits-drinking peoples of northern Europe and their beer- or wine-drinking counterparts to the south, arguing that “the climate seems to force them into a kind of national intemperance, very different from personal sobriety,” leading him to conclude: “Drunkenness predominates throughout the world in proportion to the coldness and humidity of the climate.”2 Accordingly, throughout the historical record we find descriptions of Russian men who spurn wine but “will toss off his glass of whisky like a genuine child of the north.”3
An unscientific “geoalcoholics” literature has built on such climatological determinism to map the dominant alcohol-consumption cultures of Europe. Climate indeed explains some of the map: the wine-drinking regions are mostly southern, Mediterranean climes where viniculture thrives. The so-called beer belt includes the grain-growing regions of central Europe, whereas a vodka belt encompasses what’s left: the Nordic and Baltic states, Russia, Ukraine, Belarus, and central and eastern Poland.4
BEER, WINE, AND SPIRITS-DRINKING REGIONS OF EUROPE. Adapted from Frank Jacobs, “442—Distilled Geography: Europe’s Alcohol Belts,” Strange Maps (blog), January 30, 2010, http://bigthink.com/ideas/21495.
Yet if we set aside the vineyards of the Mediterranean and look north, the climatological map looks eerily like a political map of nineteenth-century Europe. The differences in climate between Berlin and Tallinn, for instance, are not particularly stark—yet in the nineteenth century, while Berlin was the capital of the German Empire, Tallinn was ruled by Russian tsars. Tellingly, the westernmost frontier of the vodka belt that splits modern-day Poland is the exact border of the old Russian empire, suggesting that politics may be as important as climate in shaping drinking cultures.
Five hundred years ago there was no vodka belt. Back then, Russians brewed beers and fermented mead from honey. The well-to-do imported wines from more temperate climes. Tales of early Muscovite politics are steeped in inebriety, but it wasn’t vodka they were drinking.5
Consider, for instance, the founding of Nizhny Novgorod (literally “Lower New-town”—now the fourth-largest city in Russia) on the banks of the Volga River in 1222. Back then the middle Volga was populated by pagan Mordvinian tribes who, on hearing that Grand Prince Yury II of Vladimir-Suzdal was approaching down the Volga, dispatched a delegation with cooked meats and vessels of “delicious beer” to welcome the prince. Unfortunately, the young Mordva men of the delegation instead got drunk on the beer and devoured the meat, leaving nothing for the prince except earth and water. Interpreting this as a sign of submission—that all the tribes had to offer was their land and water—the prince rejoiced at his apparent conquest. And thus, as the story goes, “the Mordvan land was conquered by the Russians.”6
Yet perhaps the most curious tale of alcohol in ancient Russia comes from the very birth of the Russian nation itself. Along with their eastern Slavic brethren the Ukrainians and Belarusians, Russians trace their lineage to Kievan Rus’. Kiev was the intellectual capital of Slavdom as well as the dominant power of Eastern Europe from the ninth through thirteenth centuries. It was there that legends of Russia’s origin were compiled into the Povest’ vremennykh let (Primary Chronicle), including descriptions of Russia’s conversion from paganism to Christianity.7
At its height, the Kievan state stretched from the Baltic Sea to the Black Sea, covering present-day Ukraine, Moldova, Belarus, and the heartland of western Russia. Much of that territory was conquered by Grand Prince Vladimir the Great, who was renowned for his heathen debauches with his many wives. In a political calculation, neighboring princes and kings urged Vladimir to put away petty superstitions and adopt their modern faiths.
Vladimir agreed, sending forth fact-finding delegations to learn of different religious beliefs. Before long, Kiev was soon visited by ambassadors of the major monotheistic denominations to pitch to the great prince why he—and by extension his people—should convert to their faith. In the year 986 Vladimir hosted Jewish Khazars from the lower Volga, followed by papal emissaries from Germany who regaled the prince with tales of the power and grandeur of the Church of Rome. Greek scholars representing Byzantine Orthodox traditions took issue with the primacy of the pope before “Bulgars of the Mohammedan faith” arrived from the steppeland of the lower Don River and told the prince of the wondrous fulfillment of all carnal desires in the Islamic afterlife. “Vladimir listened to them,” according to the Chronicle, “for he was fond of women and indulgence, regarding which he heard with pleasure.” The Muslim Bulgars then described the rite of circumcision and the necessary abstinence from pork and wine. Furrowing his brow, Vladimir uttered a rhyme destined to be retold through the ages: “Rusi est’ vesel’e piti, ne mozhem bez togo byti.”8 “Drinking,” said he, “is the joy of the Russes. We cannot exist without it.”
The following year, in the water of the Dnieper River, Vladimir and the subjects of Kievan Rus’ were baptized into the church of Constantinople, and the Russians have been Orthodox Christians ever since.
The point is that while Russia has a long history of inebriety, much of it did not include vodka. Moreover, even Russia’s long history of drunkenness isn’t unusual: Europeans of every region had been drinking nearly as long as the Russians, since before pasteurization alcoholic beverages were considered safer than milk, juices, and even water, which often transmitted disease-carrying microbes. (Incidentally, Louis Pasteur originally developed the pasteurization process to keep fermented beer and wine from spoiling.)9 One could just as easily chronicle English history from the Roman introduction of beer brewing to the pagan Britons, perhaps recounting the murder of legendary fifth-century chieftain Vortigern at a drunken feast, or the death of King Henry I’s only son in 1120 when the White Ship was run aground by drunken sailors, or the legendary intemperance of Richard the Lionheart, James I, Charles II, and straight through to Winston Churchill.10 Russia is hardly “oriental” in this regard: since the middle ages, all European nations drank heavily.
So if early Russians had so much in common with their beer- and wine-drinking European neighbors, what made them switch to vodka? Think about it objectively: colorless, odorless, and tasteless—it makes as much sense to drink vodka as rubbing alcohol. In recent years, the fastest-growing segment of the global alcohol market has been flavored vodkas.11 From raspberry and huckleberry to chocolate and cookie dough, from waffles and doughnuts to bacon and smoked salmon, manufacturers are in a rush to make their products taste like anything but vodka. “The Frenchman will praise the aroma of cognac, and the Scotsman will laud the flavor of whiskey,” explains Russian writer Viktor Erofeyev. By contrast, “the Russian gulps his vodka down, grimacing and swearing, and immediately reaches for something else to ‘smooth it out.’ The result, not the process, is what’s important. You might as well inject vodka into your bloodstream as drink it.”12
Why, then, would an entire nation come to prefer such a torturous drink over the more palatable beers, wines, and meads that predominated in Russia until the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries?13 This is not a trivial question. Geoalcoholic maps of European vodka, beer, and wine belts make it seem li
ke the difference is simply a matter of taste—chalk it up to culture—but nothing could be further from the truth. Compared to traditional fermented beers and wines, distilled liquors were latecomers to the alcohol scene, but their arrival embodied a dramatic technological leap. As historian David Christian suggests, if beer and wine were like bows and arrows, vodka was like a cannon—an innovation with a potency unimaginable to traditional societies that would revolutionize both economy and culture.14
The Political Foundations Of Cultural Practices
Rarely do we scrutinize the origins of cultural practices—it is far easier to just assume that they have always been that way or simply embody some inherent national trait. Why do Russians seem to have a weakness for vodka? The conventional explanation is that it is just part of being Russian—overconsumption is hardwired into their DNA. That’s wrong: what we assume today are essential cultural traits can often be traced to political and economic sources. Accordingly, I argue that the widespread, problematic drinking habits of today are actually the product of political decisions made during the formation of the modern Russian state over four centuries ago.
Going back, feudal Russia was starkly divided between the handful of local lords and the masses of impoverished peasants. Even before their formal enserfment by the Sobornoye Ulozhenie, or Law Code of 1649, most peasants were so indebted to the local landlords that they were already slaves in everything but name. Tied to their masters’ estates, few serfs ever ventured beyond their village. Each village had at least one tavern, or korchma, through which the feudal lords extracted the earnings of the peasants. Tellingly, the Ulozhenie also outlined the gruesome tortures for those caught bootlegging or otherwise undermining alcohol revenues.15
Vodka Politics: Alcohol, Autocracy, and the Secret History of the Russian State Page 12