The King of Vodka (14 page)

These were small steps, having no discernable impact on consumption. Still, they foreshadowed the future direction of Imperial Russia. For the time being, Smirnov was comfortable and not directly threatened. He knew, though, he would need to monitor the reign of Aleksander III closely. He would, to the extent possible, need to take an interest in government affairs. Mostly, though, he would need to focus on turning his business into an even more formidable force, one with heft and staying power.

The vodka maker moved quickly. It had been thirteen years since he had begun supplying the palace with his goods, well beyond the requirement of eight years for obtaining the purveyor title. He had chased and obtained honor after honor, winning awards from Philadelphia to Paris for his alcoholic achievements. From a philanthropic point of view, Smirnov considered himself a model citizen, a prime candidate for purveyor. It was time to find out if the tsar thought so, too.

O
n May 23, 1885, Smirnov was all confidence when he sat down to compose his letter to the tsar. Gone was the fledgling entrepreneur, who fifteen years earlier had begged for the chance to sell the tsar his liquors. Now Smirnov was a fearless titan, a man recognized widely for his varied accomplishments. He had been on an unrelenting roll. He sat atop a 3.2 million-ruble empire ($34.8 million in current dollars), according to a government directory of Russian factories, which continued to multiply at an astonishing clip. Now, as he wrote to Aleksander III's court, Smirnov came across like a pupil who had seen the answers to a test.

Smirnov likely consulted a more literate member of his staff to help with grammar and ensure that his elementary prose and penmanship were proper. But the content of the letter, signed in the ex-serf's own hand under the title of First Guild Moscow Merchant, was all Smirnov, formal, respectful, and to the point.

Petitioning the tsar was an especially cumbersome and bureaucratic undertaking. An individual's entire business history for the previous decade needed to be supplied to the court. It was a task pursued by many but mastered by few. At least half the applications submitted were immediately rejected for being incomplete or unworthy of consideration. Fabergé, who had already gained notoriety for his glamorous jeweled Easter eggs, had to wait a full year to win the purveyor title in 1885 because
he forgot to include some accounting information with his application. And paperwork was not the only hitch. A string of officials had to approve every applicant, including the tsar himself. This requirement often added months to the awarding of titles, which occurred only late in the year or during Easter.

Smirnov's wares were well known to the court by this time. They had been primarily provided to the palace in Moscow. The main royal residence in St. Petersburg was not as familiar with them and, therefore, in June 1886, it requested that Smirnov send his drinks to its court for further review. Although more than a year had gone by since the vodka maker first petitioned the Imperial Court, he was delighted to receive and comply with the request. It was the first tangible signal that the tsar and his advisors were taking Smirnov's application seriously.

In fact, Smirnov was so elated to have received notice from St. Petersburg that he wrote to Count Illarion Ivanovich Vorontsov-Dashkov, a personal friend of the tsar's who functioned much like a chief of staff. In his June 1886 letter, Smirnov touted his wines and vodkas again, noting that they were unparalleled. He also took the opportunity to bow to the throne and demonstrate his deep, unwavering devotion. It was an awkward show of respect, but the intent was clear.

Before receiving word from the court, Smirnov might have wondered whether something unforeseen had occurred. Had his adversaries sabotaged his campaign? Had Chekhov's writings swayed the court? Or worse, had Smirnov himself blundered, appearing too eager and pompous rather than congenial and deferential? The uncertainty may be what prompted Smirnov to buttress his credentials once again.

He applied for and received the Order of St. Stanislav, third degree. This order was the lowest in the Russian hierarchy of orders but it was, nonetheless, a prestigious honor. More important, those who obtained it were granted hereditary honorable citizenship, a century's-old distinction also known as “eminent citizenship.” Smirnov knew he would never be accepted as a member of the nobility; he lacked the blood lines. But this title was almost as grandiose. It was an acknowledgment directly from the palace that raised the recipient's stature to the highest levels of society. It also made it possible for Smirnov to pursue a more prestigious position in his longtime charity, the Committee on Beggars.

Smirnov had been an agent of the committee since 1870, donating as much as 200 rubles per year to assist in the placement of homeless or indigent workers into meaningful jobs. It was an admirable cause, but joining the elite, ten-member operating group had other advantages. Most notably, the tsar himself had to approve all nominations, including Smirnov's. The vodka maker reasoned that this nomination could help his case for the purveyor title if the tsar associated him with a serious, old-line charity. In his application, Smirnov pledged to contribute 500
rubles annually to the Committee on Beggars. He also provided a full accounting of his work history, religion, education, family background, and financial situation. Of his origin, Smirnov was as strategic as ever, noting only that he was the son of a Moscow merchant. He said nothing about his roots as a serf.
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The months went by as Smirnov waited for news from St. Petersburg. He knew that the government had been preoccupied. Russia, like the vodka industry, was in transition. The latest evidence of turmoil came in the form of Russia's first large-scale, organized industrial strike. The Morozov's cotton mill was the backdrop for an ugly scene. Wages of some 11,000 workers had been cut five times between 1882 and 1885 while excessive fines levied against them for a variety of offenses ate up as much as half of what they took home. The rank-and-file were fed up. Almost immediately, the 8,000-person strike turned violent, as participants ransacked managers' apartments, destroyed offices, and smashed the factory food store. Damage caused by the unrest was estimated at over 300,000 rubles. The tsar and the governor of the Vladimir province, fearful of a more widespread revolt, called in the military.

The strike was repressed and its instigators arrested, but the incident was a success for society's downtrodden. Morozov was forced to make concessions and, more importantly, the state recognized the collective power of its workforce. In little more than six months, reforms, however nominal, passed, including laws that limited fines against workers to no more than 5 percent of wages. It marked an initial decisive victory for Russia's labor movement.

Smirnov no doubt watched these events unfold as he awaited word from St. Petersburg. The distraction held his attention, but it could not shake him from his grander purpose. He was focused on a future in which he was not only purveyor to the tsar but also to royalty throughout Europe. With the title in hand, Smirnov could see no end to his opportunities. He had already
hired a prominent architect and ordered plans be drawn up to enlarge and renovate his house in a way that would be more fitting for one of the tsar's suppliers. He intended to add an entire third floor with thirteen new rooms to his already expansive mansion, which included a formal ballroom. He would also upgrade the interior design, installing several indoor toilets, a convenience enjoyed by Russia's wealthy.
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The most significant addition, at least to Smirnov, would be plastered on the outside of the house. He intended to inscribe “Purveyor of His Imperial Majesty's Court—Pyotr Arsenievich Smirnov” in bold letters. The large Cyrillic lettering would go on both street-facing sides of the house, making absolutely sure that no passersby could miss the designation.

Mariya was also ready to assume a more prominent place in society. She had slipped easily into the elite ranks of merchant wives, leaving most of the household drudgery and child-rearing to hired hands so she could concentrate on her own cultural and philanthropic activities. As her son Vladimir told his wife Tatiana, his mother “took little interest in the children and preferred to lead the life of a society woman.”
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Not that anybody suffered, at least not outwardly. Smirnov's children enjoyed the best his money could buy. His daughters were likely home-schooled by private tutors early on and later attended gymnasiums, learning all that was necessary to assume their places among the most sophisticated echelons of society. Smirnov's sons attended one of the finest schools in Moscow, a private German institution affiliated with the Lutheran church that catered to boys from Moscow's eminent families. One of the school's renowned graduates was Boris Pasternak, author of
Doctor Zhivago
who received the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1958. Studies for younger boys were intense, with classes taught
in both German and Russian. Students learned about language, music, math, and religion. Once initial studies were finished, the boys were split up into two levels: Either they attended gymnasiums that provided a traditional education, including literature and the arts, or they went to so-called “real schools,” named for their more practical approach to learning. These institutions functioned more like trade schools, preparing students for careers in business and industry. This path was chosen for Smirnov's boys.

Smirnov fully expected his sons to be his successors. Having worked so hard to leave behind his peasant roots, Smirnov could not imagine his own flesh not doing whatever it would take to maintain their place among society's elite. His sons had had plenty of exposure to the good life, from novels to foreign languages to artists and composers, far more than Smirnov had ever had. What they needed now was an understanding of how to manage a growing business.

Smirnov might have been worried about the future of his boys. Pyotr, the oldest, was a comfort. He seemed to have inherited Smirnov's serious soul. He was dashing, just like his two next-youngest brothers. At seventeen years of age, he was shorter than his father, his full head of hair and bushy, handlebar mustache were similar in color compared to his father's complexion. Pyotr was also smart, and he studied hard. Even better, he was the one child who seemed genuinely interested in stepping into the role of heir apparent. The same could not be said for the next two brothers, Nikolay, age twelve, and Vladimir, age ten. They were decent students, getting average grades or better in most subjects, according to school records.
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But both relied more on charisma than on brainpower. They were handsome boys with playful, almost frivolous demeanors. Management was not necessarily a natural or obvious choice for them.

The purveyor title, though, could make things easier for everyone. It was the ultimate symbol of success, an achievement
that few others could match. The purveyor badge stood for impeccable quality, longevity in the marketplace, and unrivaled personal ethics. The holder was instantly elevated in status—both in business and in society.

 

T
HE DAYS WERE
growing shorter and cooler as November came to an end. It had been almost eighteen months since Smirnov first petitioned the tsar. Finally, he got his answer. It did not come the customary way, by post. Smirnov had the honor of hearing the news in person—from the Moscow General-Governor. This informal notification from Moscow's chief on November 22 was followed by a formal letter, dated November 26, 1886, and signed by Minister Vorontsov-Dashkov.

The very next day, Smirnov ordered that all his labels be changed to carry the new distinction. He also began running large, front-page ads, notifying his countrymen of the exciting news. “I have the honor to inform my customers that I was honored to become a purveyor of the Highest Court; this is why I have begun the process of changing my company labels for the table wine, vodka, liquors and for grape wine too. Customers will be informed when new labels are issued. Signed: Purveyor of His Imperial Majesty's Court, Pyotr Smirnov.”
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There could no longer be any doubt—no one had intervened; Chekhov's rants had not soured the court; Smirnov himself had not erred. As of 1886, Pyotr Smirnov could claim the title: the king of vodka.