Electric wind
The Story of Anatoly Ufimtsev, the "Russian Nikola Tesla"
Author: Sergey Tashevsky
In February 1931 (95 years ago), not far from the central streets of Kursk, in a wooden settlement filled with two-story mansions, an unusual structure appeared—a huge windmill on a 40-meter mast. At the time, it was visible from almost any part of the city. But it didn't cause much of a stir among the townspeople, as everyone knew that this unusual windmill had been built in the yard of the self-taught inventor Anatoly Ufimtsev. A windmill, big deal! He was a famous man; Maxim Gorky himself used to visit him. Let him have his fun.
Of course, the windmill in Ufimtsev's yard wasn't just for fun, but for generating electricity. It's tempting to say it was the world's first wind turbine, the forerunner of the hundreds of thousands of modern windmills that dot Europe and other continents. But of course not. The wind turbine was invented in the late 19th century by Professor James Blyth of Scotland, and by the time Ufimtsev's "mill" generated electricity, hundreds of them could be counted in Europe. And in America, there were thousands, where the Jacobs Wind company in Minnesota supplied wind turbines to all willing farmers. And yet, Ufimtsev's "mill" was unusual. Just like the inventor himself, about whom many stories and legends circulated in Kursk (and elsewhere) at the time.
He was born in 1880 in the very same wooden manor house he later "electrified" with his wind generator (and it still stands today, now housing the Ufimtsev House Museum). His father was a district surveyor, Georgy Ufimtsev, and his mother was Sofia Ufimtseva, née Semenova. In fact, his mother owned the house, along with everything it contained: elegant Viennese chairs, a worn sofa, an extensive scientific library, and mysterious copper instruments with lenses stored in a dusty attic. All this was left by Anatoly's grandfather, the self-taught astronomer Fyodor Semenov, who, back in the early 19th century (naturally, without any computers or adding machines), calculated a table of solar and lunar eclipses at the latitude of Kursk for two centuries to come. Thus clearly ahead of his time, my grandfather was awarded the Gold Medal of the Russian Geographical Society, but he earned no money for the family and died soon after the award, leaving his relatives with nothing but debt. True, the street where the house stood, from which it gazed upon the starry sky on rare clear evenings, was later named Semenovskaya Street by the Kursk authorities—in honor of the amateur astronomer. Still, it's not surprising that his daughter chose to marry a practical, down-to-earth man of the exact opposite profession. That is, a land surveyor.
Yet their son, Anatoly, clearly took after his grandfather, not his father, in personality. From childhood, he'd rummaged through heavy telescope tubes in the attic, played with lenses and tripods, and attempted to assemble his own devices of uncertain purpose. His grandfather's library, especially books on physics and chemistry, also came into play. After elementary school, Ufimtsev was sent to the Kursk Real School (named after Kutuzov, a rather prestigious institution), but with his "scientific baggage" gleaned from his grandfather's library, he was frankly bored there. At 16, Ufimtsev knew both physics and chemistry as well as, and perhaps even better than, his teachers, especially in terms of the practical applications of these sciences. But he made many friends at the school, with whom he'd skip classes and conduct (sometimes rather dangerous) experiments. Explosions, smoke screens, and so on...
However, even without their experiments, late 19th-century Russia was nothing but a vast smokescreen of revolutionary ideas, and the Kursk school was a notorious breeding ground for them. At the time Ufimtsev was studying there, Social Democratic proclamations were just beginning to come into fashion, and Anatoly took part in their dissemination. For printing, he invented a homemade "duplicating device" and an "electronic pen" that worked quickly and reliably. But he and his friends no longer felt that this was enough. They longed for something "big." And they especially liked the idea of blowing something up. What can you do, teenagers!
However, their hearts were obviously kind—they had no intention of killing (or even accidentally injuring) anyone. So they decided to carry out a symbolic act: blowing up a sacred church relic. Specifically, the icon of the Mother of God of the Sign (famous, miraculous!) in Kursk's Znamensky Cathedral. All of Russia knew about this icon, not just the "pious" but also the intelligentsia—after all, it is the icon being carried in Repin's famous painting "Procession with the Cross in Kursk Province," which became something of a calling card for the Itinerant artists. So the explosion in the cathedral was meant to resonate throughout the country.
It's not that Anatoly, at 17, was a staunch anticlerical or atheist (they say he eagerly participated in this annual religious procession as a child, taking communion and confessing like everyone else). But perhaps the temptation to build an "infernal machine" and become a participant in a revolutionary event proved stronger. And so he set to work.
On the evening of March 7, 1898, during a service, one of Ufimtsev's friends brought a small canvas package to the cathedral and placed it right next to the icon. It contained a bomb containing 500 grams of dynamite and a timer with a detonator. No one paid it any mind—various "gifts" had been placed near the icon all day. One more package—what difference did it make? Ufimtsev set the detonator for 1:30 a.m.—a time when the church would definitely be empty. And at precisely 1:30 a.m. on March 8, the bomb detonated.
The explosion blew out the cathedral's doors and windows, and shattered all the church furnishings. Eyewitnesses recalled: "They brought in lanterns and began to light candles, but they were extinguished by the thick, acrid smoke. The entire vast cathedral was covered in fragments of plaster, wood, stucco, and fabric... A wall cracked. A massive candlestick, designed for 150 candles, was bent and mangled..." Only the icon survived.
The explosion shattered its frame, but there wasn't a scratch on the panel itself. A miracle? Of course it was. And all of Russia immediately began talking about this miracle. The rescue of the miraculous icon even became the subject of a poem. "Sign" Vladimir Solovyov, who wrote the very next day, described Ufimtsev's bomb as "the futile poison of a serpent." Less devoutly religious citizens, especially students and high school students, suspected forgery and spread rumors that the church rector had replaced the destroyed icon with a replica. In reality, it was simpler: usually, the force of an explosion dissipates along the path of least resistance—into walls, into floors, into massive objects. Ufimtsev really should have studied physics! However, he harbored no particular animosity toward the icon itself. He simply wanted to cause an explosion, a kind of "action in the church." And judging by the reaction of the "public," the action was a success. The bombers were publicly cursed throughout Russia.
No one gave a second thought to Ufimtsev (who had a reputation as a "good boy from a respectable family"). His friends weren't suspected either. The investigation lasted almost three years, but no one was found. And they probably wouldn't have been found if one of Ufimtsev's acquaintances, who had been arrested on a completely different "case" (and, it seems, in a completely different city), hadn't suddenly begun testifying to reduce his own sentence. Thus, the hitherto unknown Tolya Ufimtsev found himself in the dock in 1901. And instantly became a celebrity.
The case was a sensational, "ideological" one, with every newspaper following it. However, the outcome was favorable: since Ufimtsev and his friends were considered minors at the time of the crime, they weren't sent to prison. They were only sent into exile. Ufimtsev was sent to Akmola (in Kazakhstan, now the capital, Astana, but then a small, backwater town) for five years. But while the trial was ongoing, Ufimtsev's name thundered across the newspapers. And once again, it inspired another famous writer—though not for poetry, but for a play.
Leonid Andreev, who loved all kinds of social horror, wrote based on newspaper articles he read theatrical script "Savva" — as always, about the futility and meaninglessness of life in Russia. "Savva" was the main character, seemingly modeled after Ufimtsev. A strange, nihilistic, righteously evil creature, yearning to escape the bog of philistinism and therefore blowing up churches and icons. But in vain. In the end, of course, an enraged crowd of philistines tears this "demon of the revolution" to bloody pieces.
In 1906, Andreyev, visiting Gorky on Capri, showed this "cheerful" play to the great proletarian classic—and he was initially delighted. "Of his recent works, this is the most ambitious and interesting!" Gorky wrote to his publishers. "The atheist Savva, the play's hero, is a very tragic figure. It will make a stunning impression!" He had already promised to take the play to the United States to organize a Broadway production. And, following Gorky's lead, all the progressive critics began to speak favorably of "Savva." The play was published simultaneously in Moscow and Berlin, Meyerhold began directing it, and Stanislavsky and Nemirovich-Danchenko were already showing interest. And then—apparently to heighten the furor—it was banned by the censors, so Meyerhold was forced to prepare for the premiere in Finland, where all the Russian theater critics eagerly flocked. In short, complete success was planned.
But, unfortunately for Andreyev, Gorky became so intrigued by the play's protagonist that he decided to enter into a correspondence with his prototype. And the correspondence suddenly proved fruitful—he and Ufimtsev (who was still serving his exile in Kazakhstan) literally became, as they say, "epistolary friends." Because instead of a "fanatical anticlerical," Gorky discovered in his correspondent not only a perfectly sane person but also a modest, kind, and insightful one. No, Andreyev's Savva and Tolya Ufimtsev had absolutely nothing in common! And, rereading Andreyev's play again on the way to America, Gorky frowned in surprise: "My God! What nonsense I'm reading now!" "I was sad and annoyed to see that Andreyev had distorted this character," he wrote in a letter at the end of 1906.
This new opinion of his quickly spread among critics. It now became fashionable to "race" to criticize Andreyev's play. The renowned literary scholar Ovsyaniko-Kulikovsky even went so far as to see in the play an artistic exploration of psychopathology in its various forms. Savva, he wrote, "is a true maniac in the psychiatric sense, with clear signs of megalomania and psychopathological heredity." The play's premieres in Finland and Berlin were a virtual failure, and a couple of years later it disappeared from the stage for a long time, leaving Leonid Andreyev disillusioned with Gorky and, by extension, with the revolution.
Meanwhile, the man on whom the play's protagonist was based was quietly released and returned to his native Kursk. He returned, frankly, a true romantic hero. Absolutely every educated citizen of the city knew about the explosion, the trial, Andreyev's play, and Ufimtsev's correspondence with Gorky. And then Gorky himself came to visit Ufimtsev, treated him to tea, and stayed for two or three days—a fact that didn't escape the attention of the local newspapers. In short, Ufimtsev unexpectedly became a true city celebrity, so much so that even in the evenings, flocks of shy female admirers would gather under his windows. And this is not surprising, since at the time he was incredibly handsome—a true 25-year-old handsome man with a dark complexion, a high forehead, a dreamy gaze, and a difficult life...
Fame can quickly ruin some people, but Anatoly Ufimtsev was definitely not one of them. He returned from exile as a fully established man, a professional mechanic (he owned a small metalworking shop in Akmola), and quickly found work in his hometown. First at a factory, then he opened his own business. Just a few months after his return, he patented his first invention—a street lamp design for urban lighting—and soon, lamps made to his designs appeared in Kursk and Sevastopol. Business flourished; his small repair shop for gramophones, sewing machines, and other electronics was a popular choice among locals, and Ufimtsev himself continued to churn out new inventions. It's said that he received 68 patents in his lifetime, including some truly outlandish ones, like a "dumpling machine." But there were, of course, more serious ones, too.
Having earned some money, in 1908 he began developing his own internal combustion engines—at first, simple ones that ran on kerosene. Such engines were widely used in agriculture at the time—installed, for example, on winnowing machines. Ufimtsev's engines quickly became popular in Kursk. They were reliable, simple, and, most importantly, inexpensive. So inexpensive that they caught the attention of the monks at the Korennaya Pustyn (where the procession with the icon Ufimtsev had "not yet completely blown up"). Yes, they knew it was "that same" Ufimtsev—but so what? It was cheap and cheerful! So the inventor was invited for three weeks to live at the monastery, tune the engines, and train the monks in their use. He did so willingly, earning a tidy fortune in the procession.
Meanwhile, the world was experiencing a worldwide craze for aviation, and Ufimtsev, of course, was no exception. He designed ever new aircraft engines (for one of which he even won a silver medal at the International Aeronautics Exhibition in 1912) and developed his own, quite extravagant, aircraft designs. However, at the beginning of the 20th century, no one really understood what an airplane should be—and Ufimtsev, like hundreds of other inventors, gave free rein to his imagination.
He came up with it spheroplane — a flying machine with a round wing, and even built a prototype, installing his best six-cylinder engine. Everything seemed fine—the engine roared, the propeller spun, the "spheroplane" bounced gently. But it wouldn't take off. It lacked lift. The machine only managed to rise into the air—for the first and last time—during a hurricane that suddenly struck the outskirts of Kursk in July 1910. It destroyed several barns, two chicken coops, and completely obliterated Ufimtsev's "spheroplane," lifting it into the air and slamming it hard into the ground. Not even the propeller remained.
The inventor initially planned to restore it, but he ran out of money, and then World War I broke out, leaving him completely distracted. He wasn't drafted into the army, however, due to his "political conviction." But Ufimtsev also lost interest in aviation technology, which had suddenly become a formidable weapon. He was now interested in another, equally fashionable topic: electricity. It was then that he began working on wind turbine designs, not just simple ones, but ones with energy storage devices, so that electricity could be generated even in calm weather.
At the time, batteries were prohibitively expensive, but Ufimtsev solved the problem of energy storage more simply—using a heavy flywheel, spun by a wind turbine and rotating in a vacuum. Without air resistance, on precisely balanced bearings, this half-ton flywheel could spin for weeks. And when needed, it released its stored power, turning a generator and generating electricity.
Absorbed in his project, Ufimtsev barely noticed the revolution that had broken out in Russia, even though Gorky regularly informed him of the events in St. Petersburg and Moscow (they corresponded almost monthly throughout those years). But this proved very opportune: Lenin was devising the GOELRO plan for the electrification of all of Russia, and Ufimtsev, at Gorky's instigation, eagerly joined in its development, proposing to cover the entire country with his wind generators. Apparently, Lenin liked the idea, and he ordered the inventor to be given three thousand rubles in state funds for experiments "with wind energy."
However, work proceeded slowly: in Russia devastated by the Revolution, even the most basic tools, components, and instruments disappeared. Even copper wire took weeks to find. Consequently, construction of the generator dragged on for nearly ten years. The "mill" produced its first current only in 1931, and it was only enough to illuminate Ufimtsev's estate and a couple of neighboring houses. However, it did indeed work even when there was no wind—the "super flywheel" continued to generate power for many hours. And, in theory, several dozen or hundreds of such wind turbines could easily replace a small hydroelectric power station.
But no one needed it anymore. The era of Stalinist industrialization was dawning, with its gigantic energy projects like Dneprogess. Therefore, Ufimtsev's "wind turbine" remained in Kursk only as a technical curiosity, and its inventor himself (though he remained a local celebrity) was perceived more as an eccentric, forever behind the times.
True, Gorky continued to support him. And not just financially. After his return to the USSR, the proletarian writer visited the "poet of scientific technology," as he called his friend, several more times, and promoted his wind turbine in magazine and newspaper articles. But no one else cared about Ufimtsev's inventions. No one, for that matter, cared about him.
And when it was discovered that at 55 he had an advanced form of tuberculosis, he was left, so to speak, alone with the disease. Perhaps Ufimtsev himself did not want to seek medical attention or was apprehensive about something, but a rather terrifying legend circulates about his final days and hours. Allegedly, he decided to experiment on himself and injected himself with breast milk through a syringe because it "contains life force." This, they say, is what killed him. But it's hard, of course, to believe that a man with an excellent knowledge of physics and chemistry could commit such a fatal folly.
Most likely, Ufimtsev did inject himself with the injections, but slightly different ones. It was 1936, after all, and a drug called "Gravidan" was in vogue, invented by a certain Zamkov, the husband of the sculptor Vera Mukhina. It was an extract from the urine of pregnant women, a very crude hormonal stimulant, which was then believed to "rejuvenate" the body. In fact, it didn't rejuvenate; it destroyed it, like a narcotic. But many party workers and even members of the Politburo, such as Marshal Budyonny, "treated" themselves with this strange substance. Gorky also tried it, as he surely told Ufimtsev more than once. However, whether Ufimtsev had access to "real" Gravidan (it was only available through the Central Committee's special hospitals at the time) is unknown. Most likely, he used some homemade analogue, which killed him...
This absurd death would likely have satisfied Leonid Andreyev, as it would have suited the character in his play perfectly. But Ufimtsev wasn't crazy. He was simply lonely, romantic, naive, and also genuinely talented. His wind turbine continued to operate reliably for many years, almost until the war, and regularly supplied electricity to several homes. Only in 1940 did something break down and the "mill" stopped working. It still stands there, on Ufimtsev's estate, as a museum exhibit, but all attempts to restore it have been unsuccessful. How is it supposed to work? What parts are missing? Why aren't such wind turbines used in Russia? And why do almost all stories about self-taught Russian inventors end so tragically?
If we knew the answers, it would probably be a completely different country.
