Statecraft. Margaret Thatcher

of wealth, for the continuation of commerce and for the development of enterprise. Russian towns remained accordingly few, backward and small.

      Secondly, the tsars admitted no institutional or even theoretical checks upon their power. They did not need to seek the consent of their subjects in order to raise revenues. Late-nineteenth- and early-twentieth-century Russian representative institutions thus had little resonance with most of the populace and were treated with scant respect by the tsar.

      Thirdly, the tsars established an odd symbiotic relationship with the Russian Orthodox Church. On the one hand, the tsar exercised total control over it: the traditions of Orthodoxy – inherited from practice in Byzantium – were highly conducive to this, recognising no clear division between the ecclesiastical and political spheres. On the other hand, Russian Orthodoxy, claiming Moscow as ‘the third Rome’, deeply infused the whole Russian state with attitudes which were viscerally anti-Western.

      These three elements combined uniquely with a fourth – the way in which Russia’s development as a state more or less coincided with its acquisition of an empire. Both were intricately connected for, to quote one leading authority, ‘since the seventeenth century, when Russia was already the world’s largest state, the immensity of their domain has served Russians as psychological compensation for their relative backwardness and poverty’.*

      Westerners who visited tsarist Russia immediately knew that they had to deal with something utterly alien and un-European. More open-minded than those intellectuals who a century later made their pseudo-pilgrimages to the Soviet Union was the Marquis de Custine, who wrote his recollection of a visit to Russia in 1838. He went there as a sympathetic admirer of Russia; he returned an outraged critic:

      The political state of Russia may be defined in one sentence: it is a country in which the government says what it pleases, because it alone has the right to speak. In Russia fear replaces, that is paralyses, thought … Nor in this country is historical truth any better respected than the sanctity of oaths … even the dead are exposed to the fantasies of him who rules the living.†

      If this reads like a description of the Soviet communist dictatorship, that is more than coincidence; for it was grafted onto a Russian police-state tradition that was already well-established.

      Custine’s picture of backwardness and repression is not, though, the whole story. The depredations which communism later made upon Russia – and even from its political coffin still makes – went far beyond anything devised by the tsars. Furthermore, economically at least, things had begun to change well before the Bolshevik Revolution. Russia’s belated but dynamic industrial revolution took off with a vengeance from the last decade of the nineteenth century. Indeed, as Norman Stone points out:

      By [the eve of the First World War], Russia had become the fourth industrial power in the world, having overtaken France in indices of heavy industry – coal, iron, steel. Her population grew from just over sixty millions in the middle of the nineteenth century to a hundred millions in 1900 and almost 140 million by 1914; and that was counting only the European part, i.e. west of the Urals. Towns, which contained only ten million people in 1880, contained thirty million by 1914.*

      Russia lacked the social and political institutions to cope with the strains of such rapid economic change. Moreover, the empire was about to enter a terrible war which exposed its weaknesses, and which led first to anarchy, then revolution, and finally to the imposition by the Bolsheviks of the most total dictatorship that the world has known.

      THE LEGACY OF COMMUNISM

      The system was as much the work of Lenin as of Marx. The wordy, flawed analyses of the German were applied with ruthless violence by the Russian, who already lived and breathed the repressive atmosphere of the tsars.

      The Soviets took the traditional tsarist hostility towards alternative sources of authority, towards freedom of thought, towards private property and towards a rule of law much further. While the tsar had demanded that he be treated as God’s representative, the Party actually usurped the place of God Himself. Communism’s war against religion – even one so politically amenable as Russian Orthodoxy – was pursued with the same aim as that against the richer peasants and against all the habits and ties of private life: the state must seize, possess, and ultimately absorb all.

      For seventy years this system was imposed on the Russian people. Of course, like all that is human, it had its less bad moments. In time, the frenzied campaign against religion abated, to be replaced under Stalin by an uneasy modus vivendi between Church and state, because the latter found the former’s influence useful. Similarly, after Stalin’s purges a certain stability descended on the Soviet system, which became more bureaucratic, stratified and corrupt – this was the period of the emergence of what Milovan Djilas called the ‘new class’.* The monster of communism mellowed a little as sclerosis set in. Under Khrushchev, the errors of Stalin were admitted. Under Gorbachev, the conduct of Lenin was eventually debatable. In the last few years of the Soviet Union the pressure for free speech and free elections grew and – to his credit – Mr Gorbachev responded.

      There was also talk of economic reform. But it never came to anything. This was essentially because, for communists – from Lenin to Gorbachev – ‘reform’ simply meant making the Marxist-Leninist system more efficient, not adopting a different system. Perhaps the last moment at which such an approach could have yielded positive results was under the intelligent Yuri Andropov (1983–84), who at least understood the economic abyss before which the Soviet Union tottered. But he was too sick – and his successor Konstantin Chernenko (1984–85) was both too sick and too dull – to make any impact. By the time that Mikhail Gorbachev took over in 1985 any attempt to reform the system was bound to fail and likely to result sooner or later in its dissolution.

      And this, of course, is what happened. Mr Gorbachev’s programmes of glasnost (openness) and perestroika (restructuring) were intended to be complementary, but that is not how they worked out. Openness about the failures of the system and of the people, past and present, who were responsible, was immensely liberating for the Soviet citizenry who had for so long been denied the chance to debate the truth. But restructuring the ramshackle institutions of the state, let alone replacing the mediocrities who battened on them, was really out of the question. In any case, the basis of the Soviet Union was still the Communist Party (which also controlled the military-industrial complex and the security apparatus), and the Party would not meekly yield up the one thing it valued above all – power.

      This fact also explains the personal tragedy of Mikhail Gorbachev, who was feted by the West – and justly so – but who was rejected and reviled by his own fellow-countrymen. For all his talk of the need for ‘new thinking’, in the end he just could not practise it. Faced in 1991 with a choice between continuing along the path of fundamental change on the one hand and a return to repressive communism on the other, he dithered. I do not believe, though this has sometimes been said, that he secretly supported those hard-line communists who temporarily seized power in July 1991. But he had himself appointed them to their positions. And even when he returned to Moscow he proclaimed himself a communist. So for all my admiration for his achievements, my sympathy for his predicament, indeed my liking for him as a man, I am sure that his replacement by Boris Yeltsin was right for Russia.

      The deep hostility between these two men who between them have done more for their country’s freedom than any other Russians was doubtless partly to be explained simply by political rivalry. But it also, I am convinced, represented something deeper. Mr Yeltsin knew in his heart that the system in which he had risen and then fallen, only to rise again, was fundamentally wrong – and not just because it failed to give people a reasonable standard of living, but also because it was based upon a structure of lies and wickedness. This, I think, is why Mr Yeltsin looked so large as he stood on that tank in central Moscow when he led the heroic battle for Russian democracy. And it is why Mr Gorbachev looked so diminished as he returned three days later from his Black Sea