Atmospheric engine in the desert
The Short Life of Ivan Polzunov
Sergey Tashevsky
Science knows nothing about the inventor Ivan Polzunov. No one bothered to paint his portrait during his lifetime, and not even a brief description of his appearance has survived. He's not a hero, but an artist's dream! That's why there are so many portraits of Polzunov. Many of them resemble Lomonosov, and that's not surprising: he was also talented and a natural. True, Lomonosov, as we know, received a good education in Germany, but Ivan Polzunov wasn't a true "people's genius," either, despite only having attended school for four years (from ages 10 to 14). He also had good teachers.
Polzunov was born in the spring of 1728 in the Urals, in the newly founded city (or, more accurately, a settlement near a metallurgical plant) of Yekaterinburg. Construction of the plant, founded by order of Peter the Great, was proceeding at a rapid pace, with peasants and "soldiers of state construction work"—in today's parlance, a "construction battalion"—being pressed into service. Polzunov's father was precisely such a "construction soldier." He and his wife hailed from the Tobolsk district, but nothing else is known about them. But they clearly desired a better future for their son, so they enrolled him in the Mining and Metallurgical School, where he was taught arithmetic and other sciences essential to industry (including history and belles-lettres, since the school was founded by Vasily Tatishchev, the future renowned historian). The school library, of course, also had some books on technology, but mostly in German and Latin. Four years later, Ivan, despite not knowing any languages, began to understand roughly what was being said. He was especially drawn to the drawings in the mechanics book; just by looking at them, he could already understand how this or that machine worked.
Apparently, one of the teachers noticed the talented boy, told his superiors, and word reached Nikita Bakharev, the chief mechanic at the Ural state-owned factories and mines, who took the teenager on as an apprentice. At the time, Bakharev was arguably the most technically educated person in the Urals: he had graduated from the Moscow School of Mathematical Sciences and the St. Petersburg Naval Academy, so it was impossible to imagine a better mentor. Under his guidance, Polzunov learned to perform complex calculations, learned about various machines and inventions, and understood the meaning of German books on mechanics. In fact, it was from the Germans that Russia learned about all the new technical discoveries made in Europe.
A German also continued Polzunov's education—though a second-generation German, Andreas Benediktovich Beer, who was then appointed chief of the Kolyvano-Voskresensk plants in the Altai region. En route to his new posting in Yekaterinburg, he paused briefly to select capable assistants. Polzunov was among those chosen. This was a great stroke of luck for the young man, as Beer was already a renowned inventor: he devised new machine tools and weapons, for example, improving the flintlock rifle, which "proved more effective in both fire and range." Ivan soon became one of Beer's favorite students and took a position at the smelting furnaces, where the technological process had to be streamlined.
Around the same time, in the early 1750s, Polzunov discovered the works of Lomonosov (the factory library had all the volumes of the "Russian Newton"). Although their scientific value was not particularly great even then, in the mid-18th century, these books inspired and instilled a love of science, and, most importantly, reinforced in the reader the idea that even the most humble person was capable of achieving great scientific heights. And Polzunov was inspired. He continued to work tirelessly.
He was soon promoted to the rank of junior schiffmaster, with a salary of 36 rubles a year (quite a considerable sum for a soldier's son), and sent to the Zmeinogorsk mine to build a road for delivering ore to the factory. He accomplished this task brilliantly. For several years, Ivan was responsible for delivering materials along the Charysh and Ob rivers to the factory in Barnaul and carried out numerous other complex tasks. For example, in 1753, he built a waterwheel-powered sawmill to his own design, and in 1755, he improved the quality of glass at the Barnaul glass factory. Documents give the impression that Polzunov never rested, taking on ever new projects. And his superiors greatly appreciated his zeal.
In January 1758, Polzunov, as one of the best workers, was entrusted with escorting a caravan of precious metals to St. Petersburg. It's no joke—more than three tons of silver, two pounds of gold, and precious stones... Polzunov also carried a chest of cash with which to purchase the necessary goods for the factory. The roads in Siberia were unsettled at the time, and there were some "dashing people," but fortunately, all ended well—Ivan carried out his superiors' orders, stopping in his native Yekaterinburg and then exploring St. Petersburg. The journey took two months, and Polzunov spent another three months on the return journey in Moscow, where he purchased paper, fabric, horse harnesses, and other small items. The purchases were slow, but Ivan was in no hurry.
The old capital charmed him with its smooth merchant life and generally appealed to him far more than St. Petersburg, not least thanks to his meeting with Pelageya Ivanovna Povalyaeva, a 22-year-old soldier's widow. A passionate romance blossomed between them, and soon the matter was decided: she agreed to go with Ivan to Altai.
A soldier's widow, 22 years old, in 1758? So she must have lost her husband just shortly before they met. Meanwhile, no one was invading Russia, and the roads were quiet. What kind of war was going on then?
Nothing more, nothing less than the infamous Seven Years' War (1756-1763), which in the 18th century could easily pass for a world war. It began between Austria and Prussia over the tiny territory of Silesia, but quickly spread to all European countries and their overseas colonies. Many historians believe that Catherine intervened in this conflict almost entirely out of personal animosity toward Frederick II, King of Prussia. However, this war, although with active Russian participation, was fought somewhere "over there," in Europe, far from St. Petersburg. In Prussia or Bohemia (and sometimes even further afield, in Africa, South America, Canada), cannons roared, and soldiers writhed in newly invented trenches. They were being killed more and more frequently by newfangled firearms (in particular, those same improved fusils). In the Battle of Zorndorf alone in the summer of 1758, Russia lost 17,000 men. That's how the soldier's widow Pelageya came to be.
Her husband apparently suffered what often befalls Russian soldiers in any war. His comrades witnessed his death and wrote to his wife, but even their humble requests for official notification and for a pension due to her husband's death went unanswered. Someone had omitted his name from the lists of the dead. Where he was buried (if he was buried at all), and what rite—Catholic, Protestant, Orthodox—the army command knew nothing of any of this. Therefore, they were in no hurry to issue a death certificate.
This became a huge problem for Polzunov, as they couldn't marry officially. He, of course, took Pelageya to Barnaul, but there they had to live secretly, ashamed of themselves in public. For three years, Pelageya lived with Ivan, disguised as a servant. They waited almost every month for a certificate to arrive, and this continued for three years until they finally managed to navigate all the circles of bureaucratic hell and obtain an evasive document confirming her ex-husband's death. During this time, they had two children, but both died in infancy. It's hard to call this family life happy, and it's not surprising that Ivan often spent the night in the factory office (and sometimes collapsed to take a nap right next to the construction site, right on the bare ground). Perhaps that's when he developed tuberculosis. But he worked selflessly, never resting or sleeping, and continued to read books whenever possible. One of them, authored by Schlatter (also a Russified German), described in Russian the English steam engines that were then slowly being introduced into production, mainly for pumping water out of mines.
“There is no such invention,” wrote Schlatter, - which could glorify the human mind so much as the invention of fire-powered machines, which can lift terrible weights and which, from the beginning of this century, have been discovered by the English and introduced into use in many places for pouring out ore and coal pits."
Polzunov found this topic very interesting, since all factories at the time relied on hydraulic power—that is, water wheels powering the bellows. This wasn't always convenient, and the rivers in Altai are quite capricious, so work stopped with every flood. What if a steam engine were used to power the bellows?
True, even the best steam engine of its time, the Newcomen steam engine, wasn't suitable for this purpose. It was too slow and required manual control. This was because 18th-century steam engines operated on a completely different principle than 18th-century locomotive and ship engines. These were still primitive "atmospheric" engines, in which everything was reversed. Hot steam didn't push the piston in the cylinder; it filled it, cooled, and this created a vacuum that pulled the piston back. Then a spring or weight returned the piston to its original position, a valve was opened, the cylinder filled with steam again—and the process repeated. The most advanced steam engines also injected cold water into the cylinder to cool the steam faster, but these engines still operated at a snail's pace. However, they had a huge advantage: they didn't require high steam pressure, sturdy boilers, or pipes. And there was nothing to explode here, since atmospheric pressure essentially did all the work. That's why these ancient steam engines are now called "atmospheric." But back then, of course, there simply weren't any others.
Polzunov set out to perfect precisely this kind of "atmospheric" steam engine. The design he developed in the early 60s used not one but two cylinders, and the valves that supplied steam and water to the cylinders were switched automatically. First, in 1763, Ivan built a working model of his engine, producing approximately two horsepower. And it worked perfectly!
The factory management immediately approved the idea, and the drawings and a report on the invention were immediately sent to St. Petersburg, where it was reported to the Empress herself. Catherine, being an enlightened monarch, responded immediately: she awarded Polzunov 400 rubles and promoted him two ranks (to captain-lieutenant). The order also added:
“...if he is not absolutely needed at the factories, then send him to the highest Cabinet with silver, so that he can spend two or three years at the Academy of Sciences to acquire more skill in mechanics and be able to apply to it with greater instruction.”
So, Ivan was given the chance to continue his education. Had he taken it, who knows how his life would have turned out... But Polzunov was precisely "needed" at the factory, since it had been decided to immediately build a large machine with a capacity of 35 horsepower, and the factory's best craftsmen, under his supervision, immediately set to work. And he himself was far more interested in this than going to study in St. Petersburg.
It seemed like everything in his life was going perfectly. He finally managed to formally marry Pelageya, his unique invention was appreciated at court, and the money finally arrived... But, alas, it all came too late.
For several years, Ivan had been suffering from ailments, coughing up blood, but he refused to pay attention to them. He was one of those hard-working people who distrust doctors and never seek them out. They thought it would resolve itself, heal on its own. And even when he was almost too weak to stand on his feet, he continued to spend days and nights in the workshop, trying to speed up work on his steam engine. He even refused the money the empress gave him, declaring he would accept the reward once the machine was working. He was confident he would have time to finish it.
But he didn't have time.
He died of tuberculosis in a fever without regaining consciousness, aged just 38, on May 27, 1766. A week later, his machine was finally launched—and proved fully functional. It powered three bellows and operated, according to various sources, for between three and ten months without interruption, "thus fully paying for itself."
Later, however, the steam boiler eventually burned out, and the machine was dismantled, returning to the familiar water wheel. But the remarkable invention, and even the inventor himself, were not forgotten in Barnaul. Polzunov was buried in a place of honor, within the grounds of the city's main church, the Peter and Paul Cathedral. And 60 years later, in 1825, in his memory and using his designs, a working model of the steam engine was built, which remains in the Barnaul museum to this day. Indeed, the memory of Ivan Polzunov as one of many talented Russian inventors persisted right up until the Revolution: his grave in Barnaul was tended, prayers were held, flowers were left there…
Then, in the mid-30s, the Peter and Paul Cathedral was blown up, and the cemetery around it was razed. Thus, as Soviet historians cautiously put it, Polzunov's grave was "lost." However, less than twenty years later, the Soviet authorities developed a renewed interest in the talented, self-taught mechanic. This happened immediately after the war, when, "in counterbalance to Western influence," they suddenly began to discover their own, Russian pioneers of everything and anything. It turned out that the airplane was invented by Captain Mozhaisky, not the Wright brothers; radio by Popov, not Marconi; and so on... Polzunov, despite having merely improved on the machine of the Englishman Newcomen (also, incidentally, self-taught, a simple blacksmith), fit perfectly into this logic, and he was immediately remembered. That's when his numerous portraits began to appear, writers vied with each other to write biographical articles and books, cities began naming streets after him, and the drawing of Polzunov's steam engine even migrated into school physics textbooks.
Even under Stalin, Ivan Polzunov became one of the "patriotic" symbols of Russian science and invention, where "we invented everything ourselves" and "the West doesn't dictate to us." But science doesn't work that way. Everything invented by humanity is invented collaboratively, grown from the discoveries of others, with no national boundaries between them. Polzunov's true story is the story of a talented man who understood and considered the ideas of others, which were "in the air," and then transformed them into his own invention. And in his time, people understood this well. Therefore, immediately after his death, the plant manager wrote about Polzunov:
“He was always worthy of great praise and generous rewards, simply because, being a man raised in a desert far removed from science, he could, with his natural wit and, so to speak, self-taught, and not understanding foreign languages, understand the composition and operation of these and build such a machine himself.”