The King of Vodka

by Linda Himelstein

  The Moscow English Club was indeed a place like no other. Grand carriages parked alongside one another in the large yard before the entrance. Members, only three hundred in total, and their guests ascended a white stone staircase surrounded by two rows of marble columns to reach the club’s doors. Servants opened the double doors that led to the entry hall. From there, visitors could head to the portrait hall, which housed portraits of emperors and important members. Or they could go to the drawing room, reserved for card play. Or they could play in the billiards room. The library offered one of the most complete collections of Russian and foreign periodicals dating back to 1813. The rooms seemed to go forever, ending with the dining room, the most majestic room of all. It was expansive, stretching the entire length of the building. During dinners, prepared by a coterie of the most prominent chefs in Russia, a small orchestra might play, followed by performances on a stage that featured some of Moscow’s best actors.

  It was a world far away from anything Smirnov had ever known, yet he wanted his liquors to be as much a fixture of the Moscow English Club as they were at neighborhood taverns. The question was how to turn that desire into reality. Smirnov’s answer, like the one he crafted for the peasantry, relied on the nature of Russia’s aristocracy. Perception mattered as much if not more than reality—especially the perceptions of Western Europe’s high society. Nothing would be more meaningful than its endorsement of Smirnov’s products. It would make them chic. And Russians would be proud that one of their own had so impressed the foreign elite.

  Smirnov went to work, making plans to travel to Vienna. An international exhibition would open there in mid-April. These competitions were visited by thousands of people from all over the world. More importantly, awards were handed out to vendors with the best products, ranging from shoes to steam engines. If Smirnov could collect such an acknowledgement, it would prove invaluable to his commercial aims.

  This would be the vodka maker’s first trip abroad. He was probably nervous about the journey—but also invigorated by its promise. He hoped Vienna would put some distance between him and the previous year’s sorrows. The year 1872 had been both professionally exhilarating and personally wrenching. What Smirnov did not know was that it would be nothing compared to what came in 1873.

  Chapter 6

  To Vienna and Back

  The dawn of 1873 began peacefully. Moscow had taken on the look of granite, as a warm cloud cover left the city feeling still and dull. The nation was experiencing a relative calm, as the biggest news of the day related only to the death of the tsar’s aunt and an illness suffered by a young prince.

  Smirnov was not so calm. He knew the next few months would be hectic—and vital to distinguishing himself and his goods in Vienna. The exhibition, which was just a few months away, had taken on extra significance. The Austrian Empire hoped to polish its image, which had been tarnished by a war with France, financial difficulties, and social unrest. The country intended to demonstrate its emerging economic and political prowess, as well as showcase its picturesque capital city. For their part, the Russians were keen on flaunting their blooming industrialization, proving that they were a flourishing, dynamic nation. Russia had participated in previous international fairs, but none had attracted so many entrepreneurs and in ventors before from such a wide array of industries. Fully loaded travel packages and special trains from St. Petersburg had been organized to transport participants and visitors to the fair. At least 1,500 merchants, artisans, and engineers from Russia were expected in Vienna in 1873. Just 700 had displayed their wares at the International Exhibition of 1862 in London while 1,300 showed up in 1867 at the Paris World’s Fair.

  Growth in the vodka industry provided one of the sharpest illustrations of Russia’s advancements—and more capitalistic mind-set. Just two spirits makers from Moscow presented in Paris six years ago. The Vienna exhibition was expecting products from more than thirty Russian distillers—plus dozens from other countries. Smirnov, unknown outside of his native country, concluded wisely that he would have to be exceptional to earn any notice.

  Preparations for the fair began in earnest months before the scheduled April (May 1 in Austria, which followed the Gregorian calendar) opening. Smirnov’s first order of business would be to file the necessary paperwork with government officials in charge of organizing Russians going to Vienna.[21] The special department would handle most of the administrative tasks for its exhibition participants, from transportation to lodging. Smirnov, however, was responsible for the selection and display of his own drinks. He had to choose which wines and liquors to send and, perhaps, figure out how to get them there. Uncle Ivan would have been able to lend a hand with some of the details, such as what to enter in the fair. He had taken part in another competition a few years earlier and had experience to share. But Ivan’s event had been a Russian-only affair in 1870, so he knew little about navigating the international community. Smirnov would have to figure that out for himself.

  International exhibition juries tended to consider above all else the pricing of products, manufacturing technologies, output volume, and treatment of factory workers. Smirnov was still relatively small time. He had no schools or medical facilities set up for his sixty or so workers. At least eight other vodka makers produced more alcohol than he did. And his use of modern machinery was no better than his rivals. The one edge Smirnov did possess was price. He sold high-quality alcohol at exceptionally low prices.

  Smirnov decided to send a variety of his liquors to Vienna. He hoped that a parade of offerings, which included wines, nalivkas, and vodkas, would make him appear more prolific, more of a heavyweight to the judges in Vienna. He also probably decided to use carriages and carts instead of trains to transport his goods to the fair. It was a more cost effective means, but it was also easier for Smirnov to maintain control of his products at all times since one of his men would accompany the cargo.

  In all likelihood, he directed his managers to prepare crates for packaging his bottles. They would need to be ready by early March since the journey west would take about a month, depending on the weather. Smirnov’s horse-drawn carts would join a convoy of others heading for the exhibition. Celebrated artists such as Ilya Repin and Vasiliy Perov were sending paintings, the Tretyakovs entered furniture fabrics into the competition, the Morozovs sent muslin and velveteen, and other exhibitors dispatched everything from caviar to porcelain to steel cannons to toothache remedies.

  There is scant evidence about Smirnov’s personal itinerary or his stay in Vienna. But based on experiences of other Russian participants, his journey would have unfolded much like others. Smirnov boarded a train in Moscow, which took him and other exhibitors some four hundred miles to St. Petersburg. From there, it was on to Warsaw. (Passengers needed to change trains in Warsaw as the Russian rails were a different width than those in other parts of Europe.) Adding to the trip’s duration, locomotives and conductors had to be switched every fifty miles. All told, the exhibitors would arrive in Vienna approximately four days after departing Moscow.

  The vodka maker probably intended to leave at the beginning of April. This timetable would allow him to settle into Vienna and assess the exhibition. He was determined to arrive early enough to snag the most prominent location possible within Russia’s allotted display space. He also wanted the chance to glad-hand the fair’s officials and judges before they embarked on their reviews. They might not know his name now, but Smirnov was determined that they would before the fair ended.

  Nataliya was due to deliver their baby during this time. But Smirnov, the traditional Russian patriarch, did not consider his presence a necessity—or even desirable. His assorted family members and a midwife were more than equipped to see Nataliya through the birth, and they would telegraph him with the news when the time came. The thought of delaying his trip likely would not have crossed his mind—or his wife’s.

  The trip to Vienna, though, must have produced a cobweb of emotions. He knew he was days
away from having another child. Would it be another boy? He prayed it would be. And what about the fair? At one moment, he was exuberant about his upcoming foreign adventure—certain he could carry away the event’s top honors. But then again, what if he failed? What if his peers at the exhibition saw him as no more than a former serf? What if his provincial roots kept him from garnering the professional accolades he so desperately wanted? As it turned out, Smirnov, clad in his finest dark European suit, was much more prepared for Vienna than it was for him.

  THE AUSTRIANS HAD pinned much on the event’s success. No expense had been spared erecting multiple buildings in Vienna’s Prater Park, including a grand rotunda, and new hotels sprang up like mushrooms. Apartment owners, hoping to lease their spaces to a sell-out crowd, expected giant paydays. Dignitaries were invited, too, to witness the country’s triumph. As a Russian journalist observed: “The exhibition was expected to satisfy the [Austrian’s] boldest hopes and dreams. Organizers of the exhibition were ready to spend any amount because they were certain the whole world would gather under the exhibition roof.”1

  Yet as the opening day approached, the fair looked more like a glorified flea market than a premiere international spectacle. The majority of participants had yet to unpack their goods or arrange their displays. Many waited anxiously for the arrival of their precious packages. Throughout the halls, unopened boxes and crates blocked walkways, constant reminders of the lingering chaos. It would be weeks before all the exhibits were ready, delaying the full opening of several pavilions. The Americans, who had dispatched such items as Colt revolvers, soaps from Colgate, and Pratt & Whitney milling machines, had nothing set up in their section. Part of the problem was administrative. Just days before the scheduled opening, officials still had not assigned space to many participants, leaving foreign exhibitors frustrated, impatient, and unimpressed. “The cases are only half-filled. And if you ask an exhibitor for his specifications, he is sure to ask you to delay any mention of his goods until his better qualities arrive,” wrote one correspondent for the New York Times.2

  More to blame, though, was the lack of a cohesive, logical floor plan. Products were given space without regard to aesthetics or common sense. Each country was allowed to design its own area, giving the halls an inconsistent, jagged feel. Spain, for instance, placed an old edition of Don Quixote alongside a piano and mosaic floor tiles. Russia displayed silver necklaces next to malachite caskets. Jurors, charged with evaluating one country’s technological progress and quality of goods against another, were befuddled. Critics pounced on the gaffe. “There was no single system. Each country used its own ideas of how to organize the exhibition. That is why it was impossible to compare countries in a sense of industrial development,” wrote one Russian critic.3

  Smirnov was at a loss, too, sorting through the melee in his designated division, the Department of Agricultural and Food Products. An estimated 282 exhibitors from Russia attended, showing everything from jams to cigars to champagnes. Given his penchant for order, Smirnov must have been underwhelmed. Presumably, his bottles arrived on time, thanks to his efficiency and good planning, and somehow amid the chaos he found a way to get them into a prime position. Scores of visitors and jurors alike would be hard-pressed to miss his wares. The vodka maker, like his mentor, Uncle Grigoriy, always understood the importance of location.

  Smirnov must have felt a sense of elation. He had arrived in Vienna as a novice. He did not know the city nor the exhibition nor the language. He may even have had trouble finding his own name in the German index of participants, where Pyotr Smirnov was Peter Smirnoff. Still, he had thus far managed to outmaneuver more experienced entrants—and was awed by much of what he saw, according to a book commissioned by his great-great-grandson, Boris. “Vienna astonished him with its abundance of music, flowers and love of life. Wearing a European suit, the Moscow merchant walked around the exposition grounds, glancing at the wine booths. What and how were they selling?”4

  Matters in Vienna were shaping up nicely for the former serf. Back home in Moscow, though, circumstances were growing grim. Nataliya had delivered a baby boy, born April 8, on Easter Sunday. His name was Nikolay. The Smirnovs would not lose this child, but the delivery had not gone well. According to church records, Nataliya had developed a nasty infection following Nikolay’s birth that left her exhausted, feverish, and at times, delusional. The condition was all too common—and its outcome was just as well known. The doctors were powerless to stop the disease that raged through Nataliya’s body.

  The opening of the exhibition was just days away when Smirnov likely heard the news. His head must have been spinning. He was delighted to have another boy. But Nataliya was dying, perhaps already dead. Smirnov, thousands of miles away, could do nothing.

  He faced an untenable dilemma: that of choosing between his family and deep-seated religious convictions, and his towering business aspirations. Both options were fraught with difficulties. Emperor Francis Joseph himself was scheduled to appear on opening day to tour the halls, so it was a unique opportunity to catch the eye of royalty. The emperor’s endorsement would indeed be invaluable in promoting Smirnov’s liquor to the nobility.

  On the other hand, the vodka maker had obligations to fulfill. Nataliya had been a beloved wife, mother, business partner, and trusted confidante. She had sculpted the Smirnov family, which now included six children ranging in age from a newborn to eleven years, into a solid, cohesive unit. Her gentle, warm nature had been an essential counterweight to Smirnov’s own strict and rigid approach to parenthood. Without her, the vodka maker would have difficulty finding his footing at home. Even worse, if Smirnov did not follow the raft of religious rituals required after a spouse’s death, his reputation might suffer. His priest, fellow parishioners, business associates, and family members might not understand this sin—or forgive it.

  Smirnov hesitated. He embodied the Russia of yesterday as well as the modern Russia. He often found himself challenged by these polar forces, making decisions based on the overwhelming ambition and traditions that guided so much of what he did. No one knows which path Smirnov chose to take in this instance. But six days after Nikolay’s birth, Nataliya, at the age of thirty, was dead. By the time Smirnov received the news, she was probably already in the ground.

  Smirnov’s choice had been mercifully made for him. Ever the pragmatist, he pushed through his grief and fulfilled his responsibilities as a business owner. He had already missed the funeral and a commemorative dinner held three days after Nataliya’s death. He could not make it home in time for another meal held nine days after death. Arseniy and an assortment of relatives and friends were probably managing the situation without him.

  Smirnov, as a compromise, probably initially kept to his schedule. He would attend the inaugural event, wearing the requisite white tie and black tails. He would do all he could to attract attention to his products and corner as many officials as possible to make his case. But then, Smirnov would cut his visit to Vienna short, returning to Moscow as widower. He would be seen in nothing but black and be home in time for the most sacred of occasions, the fortieth-day commemoration of his wife’s death. It would be then, according to the Russian Orthodox Church, when Nataliya’s final resting place would be determined. The family would pray for her salvation.

  The vodka maker again probably called upon his time as a serf to help him cope. He had spent years in his village perfecting the art of unflinching emotional control. No one would see his inner turmoil or debilitating grief. People around him would see only what Smirnov wished them to see—the next vodka purveyor to the tsar.

  OPENING DAY WAS a grand affair. At noon, the emperor and empress rode up in a ceremonial carriage pulled by six horses. No less than seven orchestras played for the event, including one conducted by the famous Johann Strauss. A cannon boomed, sounding the fair’s official launch. Smirnov lingered near his display as visitors, including the emperor, streamed into the halls. They snaked through the rotun
da, machine hall, and other pavilions. But much to Smirnov’s disappointment, the emperor never made it to his section of the fair. And the crowds overall were thinner than expected. The weather had turned cold and rainy, driving down attendance. Still, officials—and Pyotr Smirnov—remained optimistic.

  Vienna, though, was not in a mood for optimism. Just one week into the fair, Vienna’s stock exchange crashed. Its effects, which included massive bankruptcies, suicides, and unemployment, were widespread. It deflated the whole atmosphere of the exposition, as officials panicked and attendance plummeted. Exhibitors, builders, and organizers had borrowed heavily to pull off their architectural feats and create their dramatic displays. Now, it was becoming a real possibility that the proceeds from the fair would fall far short of what was needed to repay those debts. No one, not even the shah of Persia, who had come to town, was feeling flush.5

  Oddly, the financial crisis may have been a blessing for Smirnov. It stunted the flow of the exhibition, putting it into slow motion as Austrians tried to regain their composure. It was the final straw for visitors who had come or planned to come to Vienna. Now, they largely stayed away, hoping for the foul weather to clear and the financial crisis to stabilize. They wanted to see a complete exhibition, with pavilions full of bountiful displays and jaw-dropping inventions. As the Austrians needed more time, so did Smirnov.

  This interlude of sorts provided a perfect opportunity for Smirnov to get back to Russia without anyone noticing his absence. He boarded a train bound for home in the aftermath of the stock market collapse. He hoped to return to Vienna, perhaps for the judging of drinks or for the awards ceremony itself in August. In the meantime, Smirnov planned to use the trip to take measure of his current circumstances. Losing Nataliya presented a whole host of challenges beyond the obvious. Smirnov was prohibited by custom from remarrying for at least a year. But he knew his future required that he find another wife. At a time when his image was critical to his strategy, he could not afford to be viewed as somehow socially incomplete.