Beyond the lack of legal protections, advertising was a largely foreign phenomenon. Years of censorship meant that newspapers and periodicals were almost entirely official entities, reporting government announcements and other state-related business. After emancipation, more ads began appearing in publications, particularly the newer, more liberal ones, promoting soaps, perfumes, and other products. Liquor makers, however, did not join this marketing wave, preferring instead to rely on their old, tried-and-true grassroots methods to reach consumers.
Smirnov’s genius, then, stemmed from his ability to look beyond what had been to see what could be. His vision was grandiose, culminating with no less than complete dominance of his industry. His blueprint to getting there, which wrapped his company’s future inside his personal brand, was a veritable labyrinth of opportunistic initiatives aimed at building up Smirnov’s public reputation and increasing the profile of his products. He would be famous—not just for vodka. He would be known for his leadership, his charitable giving, and a bevy of upper-crust awards. He intended to cater to the entire social spectrum, servicing both the poor and the rich with an array of targeted, differentiated offerings.
Smirnov’s ambitious proposal required a personal quantum leap. Shy and reserved by nature, appearing almost robotic at times, he would have to pry open his clamshell of a soul and thrust himself into the limelight as a leader and an activist. He would have to immerse himself in the philanthropic needs of the lowest classes as well as the high-brow demands of the nobles. He would have to travel to new places, too, hawking his wares to a discerning international clientele. Under this scheme, Smirnov’s comfortable anonymity would evaporate, a casualty of the race for vodka supremacy.
And there was the vodka itself. Smirnov needed to create greater demand for it as well as convince people that his brand was superior to any other in the marketplace.
The first step in rebuilding his image, Smirnov concluded, was finding the right charity to support. Meticulous in his evaluation, he likely investigated the thirty-two organizations that fell under the supervision of the Moscow Merchants Society. These included orphanages, hospitals, schools, and shelters for the homeless. Since 1862, the society had decreed that one of the primary duties of its members should be the social welfare of the community. Merchants, especially the most successful ones, were still vilified for their self-serving attitudes and lavish lifestyles. Nineteenth-century Christian Russians took the Bible at its word: “It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of God.”2 The most savvy industrialists, in turn, supported charities to atone for the sin of wealth. And most did so through one of the groups overseen by the Merchants Society.
Smirnov, however, was not convinced that this route was the best. His agenda for social advancement trumped the convenience and familiarity of the organizations sponsored by the society. Besides, Smirnov was reluctant to participate in the Merchants Society’s programs. The group often hosted rowdy, all-night affairs, and the newspapers reported on these wild parties, causing members after-the-fact embarrassment and indignation. This behavior fell far outside of Smirnov’s comfort zone. He rarely drank or gambled and was still an outsider when it came to organized, social encounters.[19] He had never been one for mindless chitchat or gossip, nor did he want to participate in unstructured intellectual banter.
So Smirnov looked beyond the Society’s sanctioned charities, focusing instead on institutions that operated outside the merchants’ charter and the government. These tended to be older, more established, more prestigious charities whose patrons came largely from the nobility. And they were not always hospitable, particularly to newcomers. Smirnov had previously tried to donate money to a private, exclusive school that catered to the children of nobles. His gift, however, was rejected and deemed inappropriate by the school’s officials because Smirnov was not an established member of the upper crust.3
The rejection must have humiliated Smirnov, but he quickly moved on, taking particular interest in the Moscow Committee on Beggars. Founded in 1838 by a nobleman who was also Moscow’s most influential official, the committee took in vagrants, housing them, finding them jobs, training them, sending them to mental institutions, if necessary, or returning them to their families. The group provided a laudable and much-needed service. Since emancipation, the problem of unemployment and homelessness had soared, primarily in large cities like Moscow and St. Petersburg. An estimated 320,000 Russians a year had found themselves in need of social services following emancipation, a 32 percent increase from just before the reform.4
Apart from its good deeds, the Committee on Beggars also offered unique benefits. Members of the committee automatically received the title of Titular Counsel. According to the all-important civil table of ranks in nineteenth-century Russia, this honor, also held by Pushkin at the time of his death, was rather low. It ranked ninth out of fourteen possible titles. Nonetheless, Russian society treasured these awards. They served to differentiate people from one another and placed them atop “artificial social stilts,” explained one baron critical of his country’s hierarchical customs.5
Within the same vein, committee members were also afforded the right to wear stately uniforms to special events. These full-dress, formal costumes publicly displayed the lofty status of whoever wore them. This prerogative was priceless. “Status meant both privileges and prestige, and the merchant scrambled after these by whatever means available.”6 Smirnov could hardly resist.
In 1870, less than a year after his imperial rejection, Smirnov became an agent of the Moscow Committee on Beggars. Almost immediately, he began to enjoy the fruits of his choice. After donating a sizable, inaugural sum to the organization, Smirnov received his first medal. It was a round gold coin with a picture of the tsar on one side and the words “for zeal” engraved on the other side. Smirnov could wear this medal around his neck on a special ribbon, known as St. Vladimir’s ribbon, offering up more evidence of his largesse.
His charity established, the vodka maker turned his attention to his merchant status. Still one of 4,500 members of the second guild in Moscow, Smirnov realized there was far more to be gained by moving up a rung. Moscow’s first-guild merchants held a lofty place in the Russian state. Indeed, the most powerful men of industry were veterans of the first guild, including the Bakhrushin and Ryabushinskiy textile dynasties, and the Perlovs, famous tea traders. Uncle Ivan was also part of this exclusive 630-member group.
From a financial standpoint, members of the first guild were entitled to operate an unlimited number of business entities, to import and exports goods at will, to structure their companies using the most economically beneficial methods, and to enter into contracts of any amount. On a more personal note, they could receive a variety of important titles, including that of “honorable citizen” and “counsel of commerce.” They also had the right to wear illustrious uniforms, complete with a rapier, special collar, and cuffs. Another privilege gave them the right to ride in a fine carriage pulled by two horses. Those in the second guild and below could only harness one horse to their carts. Members’ children received benefits, too. After serving for twelve years in the guild, the children of members were granted access to elite, aristocratic educational institutions. Second-guild merchants were far more restricted in their school choices.
Of course, it cost significantly more to be in the first guild—565 rubles annually versus only 120 rubles (565 rubles was about $367 in 1871, or about $6,425 today; 120 rubles was about $78 then and roughly $1,365 today). By this time, though, the added expense was more than manageable for Smirnov—and worth it. He entered the first guild in 1871, according to his license, “as a wine trader in his own house in the Pyatnitskaya district.”7 Smirnov’s profile was elevated instantly. He attended regular meetings with business leaders and high society. They were getting to know him and soon, Smirnov hoped, they would know his liquor, too.
SMIRNOV UNDERSTOOD THAT there was s
till much to do to turn his bit of a brand into a household name. In a sea of distillers, how could he stand out? How could he convince peasants and royalty alike that bottles bearing his name were synonymous with smooth taste and eminent quality? It did not really matter whether his vodka truly was better than the rest of the competition, even though Smirnov believed it was. What mattered most was that drinkers, when hearing the name, instantly associated his bottles with the best Russia had to offer.
Smirnov’s plan was to go directly to his would-be customers. The streets were already flooded with alcohol. Taverns already had their favored brewers; consumers already knew what they liked—changing their minds would not be easy. Although Smirnov knew the mind-set of the peasants and lower classes, he was no longer accepted as a brother. He would have to find surrogates to make his case.
Artist Nikolay Nikolayevich Zhukov recalled Smirnov’s dilemma—and solution to it—in a short story he published titled “Smirnovskaya Vodka,” or “Smirnov Vodka.” Zhukov was an early twentieth-century graphic designer, book illustrator, writer, and painter for the Soviet military. He made his name mainly through portraits of Vladimir Lenin, which are now part of some of Russia’s most prominent art collections and galleries. He also produced pictures of everyday military life during World War II and covered the Nuremberg trials, creating more than two hundred drawings during a one-month visit to the proceedings. Zhukov’s colleagues recalled that he changed his seat daily at the trials to avoid the scrutiny of the defiant defendants.
One day, according to Zhukov’s story (which could not be independently verified), he was doing a portrait of an old, bearded man. The man, tired of sitting motionless for so long, began to stretch his body. He told the painter his hip hurt, probably due to the strain of a fishing trip and recent rains. He asked Zhukov, “Maybe you have something?” Zhukov fixed the man a drink. “He wiped his beard haughtily, drank everything, and ate a bit of something after it. Then he turned to me and said: ‘Ah, Smirnov’s vodka was really good? Have you ever tried it? You must have been too young then. It was good, really very good.’”
The story he then told Zhukov was of a canny, up-and-coming Pyotr Smirnov. The man’s memories were vague in some places and clearly mistaken in others, but his overall message was vivid and insightful: Smirnov had been a marketing wizard. One morning, the man said, Smirnov set out for Khitrov market, the grimiest, smelliest, and saddest spot in all of Moscow. Crowds of beggars, thieves, shabbily clad women selling spoiled food, and shoeless ragamuffins haunted the square, located in the center of the city. The people scurried about beneath a constant steam that seemed to hover like a cloud. They slept on the ground or in doss-houses; they ate tinned stew or fried sausages, prepared by women who kept the food warm by covering the rims of their huge cast-iron pots with their bodies. They drank in the two-and three-floored pubs that surrounded Khitrov, washing away their troubles with rancid vodka. At times, as many as 10,000 people passed through the place Russian journalist Vladimir Gilyarovskiy described as “a moving rotten pit.”8
Smirnov, dressed modestly, knew what he was looking for in Khitrov. In the mix of vagabonds and panhandlers were newly arrived men in search of a job. They came to Khitrov directly from the train stations and planted themselves under a huge awning where employers of all kinds came to find day laborers. Smirnov studied the eyes of the men he saw, unconcerned with their stained or ragged clothing, scruffy beards, or straw shoes. He could fix that. What he could not tolerate were sloppy drunks. Smirnov needed sober men, respectable enough to be taken seriously and proper enough to command attention. He rounded up fifteen of them.
He invited them back to his house where a long, narrow table had been already set with vodka and snacks. He sat them down and gave the men some time to warm themselves and have a bite to eat. He then asked each of them where they lived and where they were from. Smirnov learned that he had selected a broad assortment of residents and visitors who came from many different areas in and around Moscow. Smirnov then took out his wallet, tossing down three rubles in front of each man’s plate.
“Beginning with this day, you will drink and eat as much as you want on my treat. All I ask is that you work well for me. Now I want you to go back to your neighborhoods, order meat soups, and demand Smirnov vodka everywhere you go. Of course, people will first look at you with great surprise and try to suggest another vodka. They will try to persuade you to take another drink. But you should complain loudly so that everybody pays attention to you. A waiter will run away to get his manager and report that a strange guest demands Smirnov vodka. The manager will come to you. You should tell him loudly: ‘How is it possible that your respected establishment does not have such a vodka? It is absolutely the most remarkable vodka there is!’” Smirnov told his new hires to refuse all substitutions they might be offered and leave the pub in a huff. The men were then to go to the next bar and “begin this performance again. Then come back to my table.”9
The entourage did as they were told. And they did it well. At least that’s how the old man told it. “That very same night, Smirnov started to accept numerous calls: People demanded ten, fifteen, or twenty boxes of vodka. The vodka gushed out across Moscow.”
Once most of the drinking establishments in Moscow had been hit, Smirnov summoned his emissaries again. “Well, my dears, we have finished one thing. Let us promote another.” He then instructed the men to travel along the rail lines that jutted from Moscow’s central hub and disembark at every stop. “Demand our vodka everywhere.” The men were delighted to carry out Smirnov’s latest orders. He had fed them well, given them plenty of good vodka to drink, and paid them handsomely.
Zhukov listened as his storyteller continued, remembering that calls for Smirnov’s vodka traveled like a virus, infecting one town after another. In no time at all, orders were pouring in and Smirnov’s vodka “became popular all over Russia and then—worldwide.” The old man sat up, returned to his pose, and sighed. “Paint now!” he commanded Zhukov.
And so the story goes. Smirnov, as master puppeteer, put on the perfect show. He convinced people that his vodka was special and he had done so simply—and cheaply—relying on his innate sense of human nature. Smirnov knew he could not sway drinkers through advertisements or shiny labels or fancy titles. Neighbors had to hear praise for his vodka from a fellow drinker, the man seated on the bench at the far end of the bar.
Almost overnight, Smirnov had transformed his good, cheap vodka into something fashionable, almost trendy—and extremely profitable. By the end of 1872, Smirnov employed more than sixty workers and oversaw three managers. He produced up to 100,000 pails of alcoholic drinks and grossed 600,000 rubles annually, or the equivalent of almost $7 million in today’s dollars.10 He had expanded his menu of offerings well beyond vodka, too, hoping to broaden his appeal to consumers differing tastes. He produced an array of Russian and foreign wines, hard liquors, cognacs, and nalivkas (berry-instilled vodka). He had also kept his prices low, at least in the beginning. Smirnov did not want to alienate those consumers most responsible for his success. He charged just thirty kopeks, or twenty-one cents, for a bottle of wine, significantly less than the average of sixty-eight kopeks a bottle.[20]
Smirnov was now wealthy and enjoying enormous success. This good fortune, though, was confined to business. Smirnov’s personal life was another matter.
SINCE ALMOST THE beginning, 1872 had been a difficult and traumatic year for Smirnov at home. His seven-year-old daughter, Anna, died in January of “throat inflammation.”11 Just a few months later, in May, his mother Matryona died at the age of seventy. Then in November, Smirnov’s one-and-a-half-year-old daughter, Olga, was buried after contracting scarlet fever. All three were laid to rest in the Pyatnitskoye cemetery.
Sorrow was the unwelcome visitor in Smirnov’s vast home, inhabiting every room, every piece of furniture. Nataliya likely suffered more than Pyotr—at least outwardly. The death of her daughters left her heartbroken, but now, than
kfully, she was pregnant again. This baby, she vowed as she stroked her growing tummy, would survive, joining its five brothers and sisters. She could not bury another child.
Smirnov mourned, too, but he would not allow himself to dwell. Ever the pragmatist, Smirnov accepted these misfortunes as the unhappy, normal consequences of life. Besides, Smirnov still faced serious, distracting business challenges. His liquor was flowing, to be sure, thanks to his ingenious marketing ploys. However, it was being consumed more by the under class than by the upper crust.
This class distinction presented Smirnov with a unique problem. In some ways, he, like many other merchants, might have detested the haughtiness of Russia’s upper echelons. Many had done nothing to earn their positions, their wealth, or their pedigrees. They fed off the good fortunes of ancestors and the imperial protections they inherited. Yet Smirnov also yearned for their acceptance. Indeed, he wanted his children to live the way they lived. He wanted, eventually, to be one of them. It was not unlike the tug of a magnet, at once irresistible and then repellent, with just the slightest twist. It was this tug that Smirnov felt most.
Wooing the gentry would require a different approach from the one he had concocted for the lower classes. These people did not hang out in dark, neighborhood pubs. They attended lavish balls; they frequented the theater, the ballet, and the opera; they socialized in plush, exclusive clubs that served only haute cuisine and fine, mostly imported spirits. The Moscow English Club, founded in 1772, was the best-known of these stylish gathering spots. Tolstoy, a member for a time, wrote of it in War and Peace, noting that visits to the club were part of the regular routine for aristocratic ladies and gentlemen.
The King of Vodka Page 9