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The King of Vodka

Page 3

by Linda Himelstein


  PYOTR ARSENIEVICH SMIRNOV began life on Friday, January 9, 1831, at his home in Kayurovo, a village just sixty miles east of a quarantined district. The day was cloudy, dark, and cold. The home, known in Russian as an izba, like most others occupied by peasants in the area, was thoroughly modest. It was made of round pine logs, which sometimes had to be dragged for miles, and it had a slanted roof. The few windows were small, the distance between the end of a person’s fingertips and elbow. Each was covered with the dried bladder of a bull, which did not do nearly enough to keep out the cold but was useful in letting in some natural light. The typical structure, at just 420 square feet, offered little privacy for the multiple generations who routinely lived together.[3]

  Delivering babies in a small village like Kayurovo was treated like any other task on the farm. Pyotr’s mother, Matryona, was likely placed on a plank bed near the oven in the middle of the room. The huge oven was the focal point of peasant home life. In those days, the oven had a large hole so people could climb inside, sit down, and wash themselves in relative warmth and comfort. Elder family members slept on a flat surface on top of the oven. The oven was also where most of the cooking took place, and where young calves, lambs, and pigs were kept to protect them from the harsh conditions outdoors. The heavy odor here, as if fused into the walls and floors, was a peculiar mixture of boiled potatoes, meats, soups, and animal fur. That day, however, only the laboring mother and a local midwife occupied the coveted spot.

  Few details of Smirnov’s birth are known. The simple four-line birth record, typical for serfs, listed first the name of the landowner for whom the family worked. It then listed the village name, the father’s name, the godfather’s name, and the baby’s gender. Last came the child’s given name: Pyotr.9 No surname was provided as most serfs did not have one. It was unnecessary, primarily because serfs rarely traveled outside their small communities. Exactly when Pyotr did gain a surname is not clear, though most likely it was more than two decades later. Smirnov was a common last name in the region and a derivative of smirnoy, meaning quiet and law abiding. Today, 2.7 million Russians call themselves Smirnov, making it the most common name in the nation.10

  It can be assumed that Pyotr was born hearty. The infant mortality rate in Russia was among the highest in nineteenth-century Europe. Indeed, one out of every four babies born died before they reached their first year of life. The Smirnovs themselves lost three infant girls of their own, two from epilepsy and one from measles.11 But Pyotr, the third out of four surviving children and the second son, was a standout from the start.

  Much like his adult years, Pyotr’s boyhood was dominated by three primary concerns: work, religion, and family. A seemingly incongruent hodgepodge of allegiances, these devotions were complimentary in practice, providing the foundation for Smirnov’s willingness—even eagerness—to do whatever was required of him, checked by an ever-bending conscience born out of rigid Christian orthodoxy.

  Smirnov’s days, alongside his older brother, Yakov, were crammed with farm work, feeding the animals, hauling firewood, gardening, and cultivating the land. Serfs were required to tend their master’s fields—often using their own equipment—to provide for everyone who lived in the community. In Smirnov’s province, agriculture was dominated by flax, potato, rye, and wheat. The work was difficult, tedious, and long, particularly for a young child. Pyotr did as he was told, perhaps because he had no other choice.

  Many serfs were viewed by their masters as “baptized property,” according to Aleksander Gertsen, a Russian social activist. Most masters made little distinction between the people who plowed their fields and the horses that pulled the plows. Like merchandise at the community market, they could be bought, sold, or presented as gifts, almost on a whim. Those who stepped out of line or didn’t pull their weight could find themselves shipped off to a new home or an entirely new town—sometimes without their families.

  The Smirnovs did not have to worry about such penalties. Diligent workers who made no trouble pleased their owners. Unlike the stereotypical serfs, whom the nobility routinely dismissed as ignorant and uncultured, Pyotr’s family was industrious and opportunistic. When Pyotr and his siblings were not consumed by chores, they received rudimentary lessons in reading, writing, math, and religion from their parents. Since just 1 percent of serfs were literate at the time, even this superficial education set the family apart from the some 551,000 serfs living in their local province of Yaroslavl. It also made them more valuable. Literate serfs could fetch a purchase price of 300 rubles each compared to just 200 rubles for those who lacked basic reading skills.12

  Clearly, the Smirnovs’ owners, first the Skripitsyns and later the Demidovs, both descendants of wealthy aristocratic dynasties, appreciated their more capable serfs. The Smirnov’s home, though small, was likely larger than any other occupied by serfs in the village. Family members were also given more entrusted positions. Pyotr’s father, Arseniy, was handpicked by Nadezhda Stepanovna Skripitsyna out of dozens of serfs to represent her interests when land was distributed between members of the nobility. This responsibility made him a manager of sorts, someone who commanded a degree of respect and authority. Arseniy’s younger brother, Ivan, was a house serf. He was one of a handful of serfs permitted to work in the master’s lavish estate, to receive meals there, and to organize the affairs of the house. This role exempted Ivan from the hard manual labor others endured daily, though his job was not considered a particularly privileged one. House serfs did not get to share in the bounty of the land, had to live in small izbas behind or near the master’s home, and were viewed as even lower on the social ladder than ordinary serfs.

  Still, life inside the master’s home was more than comfortable. A typical estate consisted of multiple buildings, including a palatial main residence full of lavish imported furnishings and a large two-floored, stone outhouse. These dwellings were often surrounded by wooden garagelike structures to house carriages, stone or wood stables for the horses, a greenhouse, a bowling alley, various sheds to hold hay and grains, and a special structure for summertime activities and entertainment.

  The Smirnovs maintained amicable relations with their masters and made the best of their provincial circumstances. Village life could be pleasant—and stable. But it was hardly the most desirable situation, nor was it profitable. The soil, overrun with dense forests, swamps, and ravines, was not particularly fertile. Difficult agricultural conditions presented a tough hurdle for serfs who ached to earn enough money to buy their freedom. At that time, peasants could ransom themselves by paying their masters an agreed-upon sum. In the Smirnov’s region of Yaroslavl, the average price of freedom in the early nineteenth century was between 219 and 266 rubles, the equivalent of about $39 to $48 then.[4] Though it was no more than the cost of about twenty horses13, it was as far out of reach for the ordinary serf as a private conversation with the tsar. To narrow the gap, serfs often sought permission from their landowners to venture beyond their small surroundings and seek jobs in larger towns and cities. They could make considerably more money—as much as 100 rubles in one winter—that then would have to be divided with their masters. This seasonal migration, a relatively common practice, was primarily meant for men and their sons. Women and girls often remained behind to maintain the homestead and do the hard work necessary to create their dowries, which often included home-sown bed linens, towels, napkins, and tablecloths.

  Naturally, the Smirnovs yearned for freedom. The first to go after it was Grigoriy, Pyotr’s uncle and one of his father’s younger brothers. Pyotr was still a toddler when his uncle packed up his meager belongings in 1835 and made for the twenty-five-mile dirt road that led from his village to the bustling town of Uglich. The walk was long and tedious, but Grigoriy would have kept himself occupied, meeting up with caravans heading here or there and stopping at the homes of acquaintances for rest and nourishment. Mostly, though, he probably thought about his future. At age twenty-six, Grigoriy had big plans.


  GRIGORIY HAD CERTAINLY been to Uglich before. It was a busy trading stop for people en route to St. Petersburg, Moscow, and other important cities. Although the town had only nine thousand permanent inhabitants, its ranks swelled throughout the week as transients stopped to barter goods, purchase supplies, and rest. Grigoriy, enterprising and resourceful, figured that Uglich could improve its local economy if it gave visitors a good enough reason to hang around longer. The best way to do that, he surmised, was to offer comfortable accommodations, decent food, and plenty of liquor. And that’s what he told his master’s brother, Mikhail Skripitsyn.

  Skripitsyn must have seen something special in Grigoriy. He wasted no time at all scribbling out the legal document required for a serf to travel and work away from home. Skripitsyn likely figured that if Grigoriy was as successful as he suspected he would be, a big payday would be in the offing. Grigoriy might have carried the letter, which attested to his integrity and moral character, inside the folds of his heavy coat. It would have rested against his breast like a priceless treasure map. When Grigoriy took it out to present to officials in Uglich, seeking permission to open his first inn, he did so with confidence. The document was dated December 10, 1835, and stated:

  This certificate is provided by the landowner, the Titular Advisor and Cavalier Mikhail Stepanov Skripitsyn, to the peasant Grigoriy Alekseyevich Smirnov from the Yaroslavl province, who has been in my possession. The certificate gives him the right to run hotels and any such establishment in the town of Uglich. I know that his behavior is good and irreproachable and that he has not been involved in any suspicious activities. He has never been fined or sued and therefore can be permitted to engage in the mentioned hotel. I confirm this by my personal signature.14

  It was as if Grigoriy had been reborn. No longer just a village serf, he was now a “trading peasant, fourth class.”15 Though still a world away from the upper crust, his new status nonetheless gave him ample opportunity to make the acquaintance of one of Uglich’s most prominent families, the Zimins. They owned tanneries and linen factories, and produced supplies for Russia’s armies. More importantly, the family was into local real estate. Grigoriy leased a house from the Zimins. Its location in the center of town was perfect for the hotel and restaurant he planned to put there. The building was spacious and loaded with such modern conveniences as glass windows.16 Grigoriy transformed the property into a welcoming inn, restaurant, and drinking establishment. He had gained permission from local authorities to rent out rooms and serve a variety of food and beverages, including tea, hot chocolate, beer, and rum. He could also offer sweet drinks made with vodka. Homemade or counterfeit vodkas, as well as pure vodkas, were forbidden. No matter: Grigoriy, who took on the Smirnov name almost at random when he left his village, was peddling vodka for his own account—the first Smirnov to do so.

  The establishment was an instant hit. In less than a year, Grigoriy earned enough money to buy his freedom. It was a momentous occasion for the entire Smirnov family. Grigoriy’s emancipation brought hope that all of its members might one day leave their peasant roots behind to become part of a burgeoning class of merchants.

  Opportunity that had long evaded Russia’s lower classes was not as elusive as it had been in previous years. In the nineteenth century, Russia’s tsars allowed for more free enterprise than virtually any generation since Peter the Great. A newfangled brand of capitalism and entrepreneurship blossomed, beginning with the reign of Alexander I, in large part due to the demands of industrialization. The state could not single-handedly manage all that was needed to jumpstart economic development, from building railroads to modernizing arcane industries to establishing banking centers. Necessity, in its purest form, opened the door to dozens of ambitious go-getters—especially those involved in less capital-intensive enterprises.17 Grigoriy, and later Pyotr, were just two of the thousands who seized the moment.

  Grigoriy led the way, powering ahead in Uglich. Within five years, he owned three hotels and several wine cellars—and he was also making his own beer.[5] The former village serf was managing a rapidly increasing portfolio. Grigoriy’s new status intoxicated Pyotr especially, though his father and older brother certainly took note. Together, around 1840, they left their village for Uglich to get a closer look at the face of prosperity.[6]

  THE TRIO ARRIVED full of anticipation. It must have been eye-opening for young Pyotr and Yakov, to see their uncle now mingling with his well-heeled neighbors. He opened his wallet nearly as easily as they did. As the business grew, Grigoriy installed Arseniy as manager of the front desk in one of his hotels. The boys, alongside Grigoriy’s own sons, took on whatever menial tasks came their way—from serving drinks to cleaning up the foul smells left by men too drunk to see their way clear to the outhouse.

  Pyotr and Yakov had been around burly, hard-drinking men before. Every village, including the Smirnovs’, had at least one family designated to make moonshine. Usually a couple of miles outside the main residences, a little wooden house was erected for the sole purpose of producing alcohol made from fermented bread. They used a rudimentary system, which often created liquor with pieces of bread still swimming on top. The drink was cheap, plentiful, and popular. For many, it was a breakfast staple, a warming agent to combat frosty dawns before the workday began.

  Village moonshine, though, was nothing compared to the drinks at Uncle Grigoriy’s taverns. They were a substantial cut above the boys’ previous, comparatively primitive experiences. But that was not what most fascinated them about their new surroundings. More enticing was the actual running of a business. The boys had never seen such an operation in action before, and Pyotr must have been mesmerized. He soon began approaching his menial job like a boy at school, observing everything, studying everyone. Grigoriy, a beloved uncle and shrewd entrepreneur, became his mentor. Pyotr, a doting nephew, enthusiastically slipped into the role of pupil.

  The education of Pyotr Smirnov had begun. The subtle—and not so subtle—lessons he picked up from Grigoriy would later prove essential to Pyotr’s own success. Indeed, many of them served as roadmaps for how Pyotr launched and grew his businesses. He learned how vital it was to be fearless, expeditious, and innovative. Grigoriy, for instance, was a location mastermind. All three of his hotels were situated in central areas with high foot traffic. It was ideal for drawing in the greatest number of walk-in customers and for building name recognition from passersby. He also never hesitated to expand his business, more fearful of complacency than of risk taking; he elbowed out competitors vying for coveted rental spaces and business licenses. Grigoriy was also an innovator. He was the first proprietor in town to seek permission to open up at seven o’clock in the morning. He argued before local officials that “crowds of people,” mostly peasants, began forming as early as five o’clock because, unlike the more well-to-do residents and visitors, they had nowhere to go to escape the bitter cold.18 They could not warm themselves with a cup of tea because only taverns could provide tea for “gray people,” slang for commoners. These travelers had no access to the more upscale watering holes. Grigoriy got his wish, endearing himself to throngs of new paying customers passing through Uglich. Soon, everyone was open early. But again, Grigoriy was there first.

  At his uncle’s knee, Pyotr’s business instincts and quiet intelligence were sharpened well beyond his years. But Pyotr’s time in Uglich was coming to an end, although he didn’t know it quite yet. In 1843 Pyotr’s grandfather, still at home in the village, took ill and died. The sad event forced Arseniy, the most unencumbered of the Smirnov men of his generation, to return to his village immediately to help manage the property and console family members. The big question: What to do with the boys? Pyotr, just twelve years old, was maturing quickly, but he still had much to learn from his uncle, something Arseniy may have instinctively understood. He agreed to let Pyotr remain in Uglich—at least for the time being. He could continue to earn money and still be close enough to home if Arseniy needed his help. Yakov, however,
was almost seventeen, having grown into a tall, robust young man. The family needed to increase its income to have any hope of gaining its freedom, and Yakov could do better in Moscow than in Uglich, earning twice as much money there, even by washing dishes.

  Already a growing number of peasants from the Yaroslavl province, about 9 percent, were leaving for seasonal work. Most went to St. Petersburg, the capital. But increasingly, they were also heading to Moscow, where communities of immigrant serfs were settling in small pockets throughout the growing city. Arseniy’s brother, Ivan, belonged to this group. He had been going to Moscow for seasonal work since the age of ten.19 He would pick up odd jobs here and there, mostly in wine cellars and pubs. Yaroslavl peasants were well represented in Moscow’s liquor industry; indeed, one-third of them found jobs in the shops, cellars, or pubs.

  Ivan had been more successful than most. About the same time Grigoriy launched his business in Uglich, Ivan landed a plum job working for Aleksander Yakovlev, a wine merchant in Moscow. As Yakovlev’s right-hand man, he helped manage the former peasant’s wine cellar and retail outlets.[7] The work was a natural fit for Ivan—and fruitful. When Yakovlev died suddenly in 1839, Ivan took over the business. Within one year, he had earned enough to be the second Smirnov to pay off his ransom and, in 1840, gain his freedom. Within another year, Ivan was firmly established as a merchant of the “third guild,” the lowest rung in the hierarchy of Moscow merchants. But it was a solid step toward independence and respectability.

  Thinking about his son, Arseniy made the most practical choice: Yakov must go to Moscow. There, under Ivan’s watchful eye, he might earn enough money to hasten the family’s quest for liberty.

  Pyotr may well have envied Yakov. He knew most Muscovites would have looked on him as a country bumpkin. He was uneducated and uncultured, but Pyotr had grown into a determined adolescent while in Uglich. He had tasted freedom and scratched up against success; he had seen one of his own climb from the bottom of the social order to a position of respect. Staying behind in this relative speck of a town, while his brother got to experience the great metropolis, may have seemed unfair. Why should he remain glued to his humble birthplace, close to his parents, while others were migrating, progressing, and succeeding?

 

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