None of this establishes that Yeltsin governed as a CPSU secretary reborn, pure and simple. Regional party bosses until the 1980s, while all-powerful in their fiefdoms, reported to the general secretary, and that was a party role Yeltsin had never filled. Yeltsin as president took orders from no one and owed his post to the electorate. His refusal to be over-absorbed in detail was a character trait over and above what he learned in his party career. Some of the administrative levers associated with the Soviet partocracy, such as the personnel weapon and administration of perks, have been found in other times and places—for example, in the heyday of machine politics in big American cities. The Soviet formula was an alloy of machine techniques with the police state, the planned economy, and communist ideology, and those combinatory variables were absent after 1991. Yeltsin either would not or could not lock up dissidents, censor the press, or take 99.99 percent of the votes in a single-candidate election, and he had no hard-and-fast ideology and no propaganda mechanism at his fingertips. In the privileges area, he stayed aloof from the dross of Pavel Borodin’s decisions.30 The operation was constrained by a body of legislation on official benefits and by muckraking journalism, neither of them operative under the communist regime. Only when a good was in very short stock and the queue was long—state dachas are the best example—did Borodin and his office have much of an ability to play favorites.31 Once out of government service in the 1990s, most at the level of government minister, presidential adviser, or provincial governor were left to their own devices, without a helping or a hindering hand from Building No. 1.
The historicist, monarchial, and apparatchik paradigms all underplay the gnarly complexity of Yeltsin’s part in governing the state. Of the three, the first, with its sense of mission, is closest to his self-conception. But how effective was the Yeltsin recipe of governance in practice? As an oppositionist, he had presented himself as an improvement on Gorbachev, whose means of rule were rusting out. In power, he rammed through a constitution vesting him with the prerogatives he had lacked until then. The optimist would have forecast that state behavior in the new Russia would be more proactive and coherent than in the old, and it was some of the time but not consistently so. Presidential leadership was constrained by the disorganization of Yeltsin’s surroundings and by institutional counterweights. It was further influenced by his own conception of politics in an era of transition.
The results were there to see inside his organizational home, the executive branch in Moscow. Yeltsin was as well-spoken as anybody on the pathologies of government after communism. He titled his maiden state-of-the-country address to parliament in 1994 “On Strengthening the Russian State.” It began with “the gap between constitutional principles and the real practice” of rule. Russia had repudiated autocracy but not found a workable replacement, and this was undermining the whole course of reform:
Having relinquished the command principle of governing, the state has not fully assimilated the law-based principle. This has brought forth such menacing phenomena as . . . an efflorescence of bureaucratism, which stifles the growth of new economic relations, ... the inclusion of part of the bureaucracy on various levels in the political struggle, which leads to the sabotage of state decisions . . . the imbuing of the state and municipal apparatus with corruption . . . a low level of discipline in implementation . . . lack of coordination in the work of the ministries and departments. . . . Here we must confess openly that democratic principles and the organizations of government are more and more being discredited. A negative image of democracy is being formed, as a lethargic and amorphous system of power that gives little to the majority of people and defends above all its own corporate interests. Russian society has attained freedom, but does not yet feel democracy as a system of state power that is both strong and accountable before the nation.32
The Yeltsin constitution of 1993 cleared up the struggle between the executive and the legislative wings. Other than excising the vice presidency, which Aleksandr Rutskoi had made a base for attacking the president, it did little to bring order to the executive. One option would have been to snuff out its structural duality. Gennadii Burbulis had wanted to scrap the office of prime minister and make the president a U.S.-type chief executive, with agency heads reporting to him and forming a presidential cabinet. He saw Yeltsin’s combination of the posts of president and premier in the autumn of 1991 as a first step toward realizing his goal. Initially open to the suggestion, Yeltsin was unalterably against it by mid-1992, wanting someone else do the legwork on reform and be a lightning rod. As Burbulis put it in an interview, “The president’s path [Yeltsin thought] would be the main source of will on questions of direction. The difficulties, pain, and burdensome decisions at any given moment would be undertaken by others, who could be removed [if they failed].”33 The new constitution reaffirmed the separation between a popularly elected president and a prime minister confirmed by parliament and in day-to-day charge of the civilian bureaucracy and the budget. The arrangement resembled the Gaullist Fifth Republic in France. In a way, it also honored the Soviet legacy: For most of the communist period, different individuals served as general secretary of the Communist Party and chairman of the USSR government, with the former, like the post-Soviet Russian president, very much in the driver’s seat.
The dispersive undercurrents within the state apparatus were never enough to prod Yeltsin into radical action. The bureaucracy, no longer the handmaiden of the CPSU apparatus, and with its economic monopoly burst by market reform, seemed to him a headless monster and not an immediate threat. Making it less corrupt and more responsive were desirable objectives but low on his to-do list. A ranking official who was caught red-handed peddling influence stood to be fired. In August 1993, for example, Yeltsin released Viktor Barannikov, the minister of security, for taking bribes. Barannikov then switched sides in the constitutional dogfight and was arrested after the October violence. In November 1994 Yeltsin removed Deputy Defense Minister Matvei Burlakov, who had been accused in the press of profiteering from the evacuation of troops from Germany, but the general was never prosecuted. On systemic graft, kickbacks, and falsification, Yeltsin promulgated ameliorative decrees to little effect. To the demand of Grigorii Yavlinskii, the leader of the liberal Yabloko Party, that he make a full-scale attack on corruption as a condition of Yavlinskii supporting him in the 1996 presidential election, Yeltsin came back with a shrug of the shoulders: “So what can I do about it? This is Russia, after all.”34
Boris Yeltsin as decision maker should be measured by an appropriate yardstick. Innovative statesmen in democracies or half-democracies do not address the dilemmas of the day singlehandedly. They identify problems, stir the pot, and begin to act. When followers join in, it may mainly serve the leader’s requirements and ramify his influence; empower followers to mold the relationship, so that leaders wind up following the followers; or mutually empower, as it was with Franklin Roosevelt and the New Deal coalition in the United States in the 1930s. The most successful leaders respond to the material and psychic needs of followers and motivate them to invest in the shared cause and to help fix its terms.35
The early Yeltsin fostered mutual empowerment with acolytes on the street and in the halls of power. Once in the Kremlin, he still did, only with the difference that his empowerment of others tended to be ambiguous and, one could say, schizoid—the authorization of persons with multiple outlooks to speak and act in his name, either serially or simultaneously. The president’s team was deficient in teamwork.
Captaincy of the team was not up for debate. An underperforming player might be slighted for months before Yeltsin let him go. In July 1994, aboard a steamship on the Yenisei River in Siberia with the governor of Krasnoyarsk province, Valerii Zubov, Yeltsin was out of sorts at japes made by press secretary Vyacheslav Kostikov and ordered him thrown into the drink, fully clothed. Pavel Borodin rescued Kostikov with only his self-regard harmed.36 Foreign Minister Andrei Kozyrev was on the receiving end in 1995. Yelts
in complained of him at press conferences in July and September. When they traveled to the United States in October, the Americans were astonished to see Kozyrev disembark the presidential airplane in New York through a rear door. He was assigned to the hindmost car in the motorcade and forbidden to accompany Yeltsin to the United Nations, after which he “went forlornly off to his hotel.”37 In January 1996 Yeltsin replaced Kozyrev with Yevgenii Primakov.
In meetings scheduled for briefing purposes, Yeltsin never tipped off the questions he would ask of the reporting official. No exception was made for his Tuesday A.M. update from the prime minister, the number two in the Russian state. “Prompting would not have corresponded to the style of Boris Yeltsin. He wanted the weekly performance to have some suspense about it, something unexpected for the prime minister. The latter, of course, was not overjoyed.”38 The prime minister had the same right to ask questions as the president, and Yeltsin had no interest in seeing them before the meeting. In one-on-one meetings the president initiated, he would call for a summary of the recommended course, then ask to hear in a nutshell which pieces of it were spornyi, debatable—likely to cause implementation and political problems. If the discussion had been initiated by a subordinate, it was not unusual for Yeltsin to stare poker-faced for most of the encounter. I heard in interviews that the guest often felt as if trapped in a magnetic field, or like a rabbit in the gaze of a boa constrictor that could strike without warning. Kostikov convincingly attributes Yeltsin’s silence at many meetings to his work in the CPSU apparatus, “when you could pay with your career for a careless word or an overly frank glance,” as well as to an instinct to protect yourself from people “who are prepared to change their opinion depending on the eyebrow movements of a powerful person.”39 But there was personal style at work, too. Yeltsin reflected on it in the last volume of his memoirs: “In conversation, I love sharp turns, gaps, and unexpected transitions. I hold to my own rhythm and cannot stand stupid monotony.”40
At meetings with many policymakers present, Yeltsin kept them on their toes by arbitrarily assigning seats at the table and sometimes changing the order at the last second, moving them toward or away from his chair. If he had already made a decision on an issue, he might hear out advice on how to do it better but hated to be contradicted. Were he to revise a position, it was by stealing the critic’s thunder without explicitly endorsing the critique: He “came out in public support of the stand he had previously spurned, without naming names.”41 During a discussion he thought unproductive, Yeltsin could vacate the room to stunning effect, leaving the others to cool their heels for twenty or thirty minutes. The signing of a memorandum or position paper—though not of a decree or law, which would have undergone laborious review—could evoke “the Yeltsin pause.” The president would take up to sixty seconds to reread the text word for word, pan over the spectators, and then roll up his shirt sleeve and scratch out his signature with a fountain pen. There were days when Yeltsin, pen uncapped, spied a problem in the document and discarded it. The sponsors would go scurrying for cover, and Yeltsin would take the unsigned document away with him.
Another expression of this same approach was Yeltsin’s acting as a court of appeal for suppliants. It was a partial continuation both of his populism, which implied listening to voices from below, and of his CPSU bossism, which gave the chief the right to settle disputes over resources. Yeltsin acted in this mode with the greatest frequency in his first several years in the Kremlin. “Witnesses say,” wrote one political journalist, “that from morning to evening Yeltsin’s reception area is under attack by foot-messengers and applicants with draft decrees in their pockets.” Since there were many more requests than Yeltsin could give thoughtful consideration to, the process let well-placed bureaucrats decide whom to give “access to the body” (Yeltsin’s) and which edicts to give priority to, with no one looking out for coherency and comprehensibility. “They commission expert reviews of the drafts and assess their results. They ‘report’ drafts for [the president’s] signature, correcting the texts by their lights. As a result, today’s decrees often contradict yesterday’s decrees and the-day-before-yesterday’s.”42
Mindful of the danger, managers on the Kremlin staff tried throughout the first term to rationalize the process by restricting access to Yeltsin by suitors for loans, subventions, and pork-barrel projects. Decree No. 226 in February 1995, written by Aleksandr Livshits and Anatolii Chubais, lifted the bar by requiring that any presidential decision touching on the budget kitty first be authorized by the Council of Ministers. Yeltsin found ways around this rigmarole, mostly by issuing offhand rulings. The Presidential Business Department and the Center for Presidential Priorities, headed by Nikolai Malyshev, provided convenient off-the-books funds, and provincial governors could always be enmeshed in the same spirit. Yevgenii Yasin, Yeltsin’s economics minister in 1995, shortly after adoption of Decree No. 226, protested a promise to extend financial credits for retooling to the Krasnodar Automotive Works. Yeltsin remonstrated, “And who is president of Russia? They have told me you are a saboteur, and now that is obvious. I gave you an instruction. How to carry it out is your problem.” A loophole was eventually found and the loan funded.43
The phenomenon was larger than Yeltsin. It was rooted also in the governing cohort he assembled, which sector by sector and across them all was fractious and fluctuating. Why so? Some of it was out of Yeltsin’s hands, in that he had to split the difference over personnel and policy with other forces in the political system. Inside the executive, the CPSU horse collar was not succeeded by the norms of rule of law and collective responsibility that prevail in the cabinets and bureaucracies of established democracies. Faced with uncertainty, government bureaus strove for autarky, and jurisdictional boundaries among them, not crisp to begin with, were imprecise in the extreme—“everyone was interested in everything.”44 The legislature was another serious constraint on Yeltsin. The Congress of People’s Deputies was the main factor behind the removal of economic liberals like Yegor Gaidar and the promotion of more conservative figures like Viktor Chernomyrdin. Although the State Duma had fewer powers than the congress, Yeltsin continued to make concessions, “willing to sacrifice . . . executive officials at critical junctures in order to placate a parliament that was hostile to zealous reformers.”45 This happened after both the 1993 and the 1995 Duma elections. Gaidar left the government for the second time after the first; Chubais and Foreign Minister Kozyrev were among those demoted after the second.
But Yeltsin and his preferences were also centrally involved in building disunity into the executive. For one thing, he liked to take his chances with individuals whose egos were as strong as his. He several times told Chubais that “he really liked working with bright people and even with people brighter than he.”46 He would never select a collaborator who was after his throne or discourteous toward him. Within those doughy limits, personal qualities weighed almost as much as opinions. Policy intellectuals and semi-intellectuals, red directors from the planned economy, ex-apparatchiks, journalists, security officers, oligarchs and their tagalongs—Yeltsin found room for all of them under his institutional big tent. Were someone not to work out, he would be handed his walking papers, and that would be that.
Yeltsin, furthermore, custom-built some positions for individuals whose contribution or company he valued, and when he did so he gave scant thought to the whole chessboard. In 1990–91, still head of the RSFSR parliament, he designated a Supreme Economic Council as a consolation prize for Mikhail Bocharov, who had been a candidate for prime minister; Bocharov quit after failing for five months to get an appointment with him to discuss the council’s program.47 Yeltsin in 1990 gave Gennadii Burbulis the title of “authorized representative of the chairman of the Supreme Soviet”; in 1991–92 it was “state secretary of Russia.” Undefined in legislation, both offices amounted to carrying out those tasks Yeltsin commissioned him to do.48 For almost a year in 1992–93, the government had two press agencies, on
e headed by his former Moscow workfellow Mikhail Poltoranin and the other by the jurist and journalist Mikhail Fedotov. This situation was the upshot of Yeltsin’s desire to protect Poltoranin from the Supreme Soviet and of some prevarication on relations between the state and the mass media.49 From 1992 to 1994, Shamil Tarpishchev, the skipper of the Russian tennis team and Yeltsin’s coach and doubles partner, served as presidential “adviser for sports and physical culture” and had a Kremlin office.
Yeltsin’s creed of personal independence inclined him against micromanagement of bench members’ discharge of their duties. He would speak briefly with a new appointee, ask him to check in on issues of principle only, and leave him to go to it. Presidential assistants submitted weekly reports of one or two pages; most others turned to him only on time-urgent matters and only with short messages.50 This did not mean that the appointee could breathe easily, for the president’s eye was peeled: “Although Yeltsin rarely gave concrete assignments to workers in his apparatus, he watched carefully to see how self-reliant and energetic these workers were and rewarded such self-reliance.”51 Self-reliance was no salvation if political breakers were encountered, and it was secondary to presidential wishes, if and when these could be ascertained. The most benignant outcome would be like that accomplished by Viktor Chernomyrdin: “He [Yeltsin] did not interfere in my work . . . or in what the government was supposed to do. But I did not do anything without clearing the basic questions with him.”52 Any number of others did not thread the needle as adeptly.
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