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An Algebra of Soviet Power Elite Circulation in the
Belorussian Republic 1966 86 1st Edition Michael E.
Urban Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Michael E. Urban
ISBN(s): 9780521372565, 0521372569
Edition: 1
File Details: PDF, 6.36 MB
Year: 2008
Language: english
AN ALGEBRA OF SOVIET POWER

Soviet and East European Studies: 67

Editorial Board
Ronald Hill (General editor), Judy Batt, Michael Kaser
Paul Lewis, Margot Light, Alastair McAuley
James Riordan, Stephen White

Soviet and East European Studies, under the auspices of Cambridge

University Press and the British Association for Soviet, Slavonic and
East European Studies (BASSEES), promotes the publication of works
presenting substantial and original research on the economics, politics,
sociology and modern history of the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe.
Soviet and East European Studies
69 CHRIS WARD
Russia's cotton workers and the New Economic Policy
Shop-floor culture and state policy 1921-1929
68 LASZLO CSABA
Eastern Europe in the world economy
67 MICHAEL E. URBAN
An algebra of Soviet power
Elite circulation in the Belorussian Republic 1966-1986
66 JANE L. CURRY
Poland's journalists: professionalism and politics
65 MARTIN MYANT
The Czechoslovak economy 1948-1988
The battle for economic reform
64 XAVIER RICHET
The Hungarian model: markets and planning in a socialist economy
63 PAUL G. LEWIS
Political authority and party secretaries in Poland 1975-1986
62 BENJAMIN PINKUS
The Jews of the Soviet Union
The history of a national minority
6l FRANCESCO BENVENUTI
The Bolsheviks and the Red Army, 1918-1922
6() HIROAKI KUYOMIYA
Stalin's industrial revolution
Politics and workers, 1928-1932
59 LEWIS SIEGELBAUM
Stakhanovism and the politics of productivity in the USSR, 1935-1941
58 JOSEF M. VAN BRABANT
Adjustment, structural change and economic efficiency
Aspects of monetary cooperation in Eastern Europe
57 ILIANA ZLOCH-CHRISTY
Debt problems of Eastern Europe
56 SUSAN BRIDGER
Women in the Soviet countryside
Women's roles in rural development in the Soviet Union
55 ALLEN LYNCH
The Soviet study of international relations
54 DAVID GRANICK
Job rights in the Soviet Union: their consequences

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AN ALGEBRA OF
SOVIET POWER
Elite circulation in the Belorussian
Republic 1966-86

MICHAEL E. URBAN
Professor of Political Science
Auburn University

The right of the

University of Cambridge
to print and sell
all manner of books
was granted by
Henry VIII in 1534.
The University has printed
and published continuously
since 1584.

CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY PRESS

Cambridge
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CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY PRESS
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The Edinburgh Building, Cambridge CB2 2RU, UK

Published in the United States of America by Cambridge University Press, New York

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Information on this title: www.cambridge.org/9780521372565
© Cambridge University Press 1989

This publication is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception

and to the provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements,
no reproduction of any part may take place without
the written permission of Cambridge University Press.

First published 1989

A catalogue recordfor this publication is available from the British Library

Library of Congress Cataloguing in Publication data

Urban, Michael E., 1947-
An algebra of Soviet power: elite circulation in the
Belorussian Republic, 1966—86/Michael E. Urban
p. cm. - (Soviet and East European studies: 67)
Bibliography.
Includes index.
ISBN 0-521-37256-9
1. Belorussian S.S.R. - Officials and employees.
2. Elite (Social sciences) — Belorussian S.S.R.
3. Social mobility - Belorussian S.S.R.
4. Belorussian S.S.R. - Politics and government.
I. Title. II. Series.
JN6646.Z1U74 1989
305.5'2'094785-dc20 89-1038 CIP

ISBN-13 978-0-521-37256-5 hardback

ISBN-10 0-521-37256-9 hardback

Transferred to digital printing 2005

To Veronica, Emily and George
 Contents

List of figures and tables page ix

Preface xi
Acknowledgemen ts xv

1 Method, model and historical background 1

Bureaucracy, personnel and the Soviet form of organization 1
Models and methods 5
Historical sketch 10

2 Hierarchy, mobility and a stratified model 18

Data and method 20
The stratified model and its implications for the question of
hierarchy in Soviet organizations 28
Summary and conclusions 34

3 Centralization as a determinant of elite circulation 35

Centralization as a property of the system 36
Centralization and the circulation of vacancies in the system 38
Summary and conclusions 57

4 The regional structure of elite circulation 59

The main test 61
The two models compared 67
Auxiliary tests 69
Summary and conclusions 74

5 The structure of patronage affiliations 79

Mobility within and across organizations 79
Detecting patronage groups 88
vii
viii Contents

6 Does faction make a difference? 98

The influence of faction on mobility patterns 98
Women in the system 104
The use of negative sanctions 108
Conclusions 114

7 Political succession 116

Succession in the BSSR in the context of Kremlin politics 116
Succession in the perspective of factional contests 126
Implications of the succession for elite circulation 131

8 Conclusions, implications and the question of levels 136

Appendix A Stratification of positions in the Belorussian

Republic, 1966-86 142
Appendix B A roster of factional groups in the Belorussian
Republic, 1966-86 149

Notes 156
Index 176
 Figures and tables

FIGURES

1.1 The basic model underlying Western analyses of Soviet

elites page 7
1.2 A vacancy chain encompassing five positions 8
1.3 Revised model for Soviet elite analysis 9
2.1 Representation of ranking procedure for jobs in sample 25

TABLES

2.1 Sample position matrix for Belorussian Republic, 1966-86 23

2.2 Representation of positions on the Central Committee of
KPB by stratum 30
2.3 Position transitions for department heads, sector heads
and inspectors in the Organization-Party Work Depart-
ment of KPB 31
3.1 Q matrix of transition probabilities of vacancies among
strata, 1966-86 41
3.2 Predicted (P) and observed (O) distributions of chain
lengths by stratum of origin 44
3.3 Predicted (P) and observed (O) distributions of chain
lengths for the top three strata, with and without all-union
jobs 46
3.4 Job matches between career histories of officeholders and
vacancy chains initiated by their exits, 1966-86 48
3.5 Probabilities and relative frequencies of vacancies passing
out of the system in Strata 1-3 (combined), by time
periods, with and without all-union jobs 53
4.1 Predicted (P) and observed (O) distributions of chain
lengths by place of origin, 1966-86 62
ix
 Figures and tables

4.2 R matrix of transition probabilities of vacancies among

regions, 1966-86 64
4.3 Regional origins of Belorussian regional elites, 1966-86 70
4.4 Regions of origin of top elite in BSSR, 1966-86 71
5.1 Frequencies and relative frequencies of personnel supply
among organizations, 1966-86 80
5.2 Frequencies and relative frequencies of personnel supply
among five organizations for two time periods 85
5.3 Rates at which replacements are drawn among organi-
zations, 1966-86 86
5.4 Clientele groupings established by association in
replacement chains 93
5.5 Identification of clients by repeated joint-mobility for
three patronage groups 96
6.1 Average ranks of first, second and highest positions held
for two groups entering system through five channels 101
6.2 Factional affiliation of women and access to elite positions 107
6.3 Official reprimands and their effects on careers 110
7.1 Number of identified members of patronage groups in top
elite positions 127
7.2 Number of identified members of patronage groups
among heads of departments of the Secretariat of the KPB 128
7.3 Number of identified members of patronage groups in
upper levels of the state apparatus 129
7.4 Number of identified members of patronage groups in
elite jobs in the regions 136
 Preface

This book probably got started in Moscow some eight years ago. Its
immediate occasion was yet another bout of insomnia, induced this
time not by one of the usual offenders - heartaches, backaches and
financial woes - but by the insistence of a single nagging question
which I found myself helpless to avoid: How does this system work?
Moments on the street, in the office, in the cafeteria taught me what I
had learned and not learned through years in the classroom and the
library, namely, that, although I might know a number of things about
the Soviet Union, when it came to its basic 'laws of motion' I was
drawing a blank. I simply had not developed concepts that could make
sense of the confusing variety of experiences that I was undergoing. I
lacked a method that was adequate to the task.
While this book is by no means an attempt to address in full the
fundamentals of the Soviet order, it does have a few ambitions along
these lines. Accordingly, one of its aims is to take method seriously. By
'method' I have in mind no more than a particular way of looking at
the world that specifies ex ante how we might compose what would
otherwise be a welter of discordant perceptions into a comprehensible
system of ideas and facts. By this measure, of course, we are always
relying on method, whether we are reading a newspaper or writing a
book on Soviet elites. My point is simply to acknowledge this reliance
and, in so doing, to take it, again, seriously.
In my view, such an orientation toward method neither implies that
the object of analysis disappears behind abstractions, nor that it
represents a mere vessel to be fashioned and refashioned in order to
accommodate some purely methodological exercise. If anything, the
reverse is true. Method might be regarded as the vessel and its utility
consists precisely in its capacity to contain the object of our interest.
Further, we can no more divorce the object from the method which
constitutes it than we can the perception from the perceiver. Method
XI
xii Preface

functions in such a way as to link the object of our interest to our

interest in the object. Through it, we organize our data according to
the categories that we provide for them. Method is our eyes.
This book undertakes a structural study of elite circulation in the
Belorussian Republic of the USSR over the years 1966-86. The idea of
structure as used here should not be confused with that of formal
organizational relations, although the two at times may coincide.
Instead, the concept of structure represents an analytic orientation
away from viewing the fundamental features of the social world as
reducible to individuals and toward a perspective in which the
relations among them, ordered or 'structured' in particular ways,
become the primary focus of attention. As such, this study, while
looking at the Belorussian political elite, is little concerned to describe
those individuals who have held power. For good or ill, the reader will
not find presented here the sort of data - namely, the personal
attributes of individual officeholders - ordinarily encountered in
studies of Soviet elites. Stranger still, this is a book about an elite in one
of the national republics of the USSR that includes no data on the
respective nationalities of the elite's members. The reason for these
omissions is simple enough. Rather than a description of the person-
nel who have held power, the purpose of this study is to describe the
personnel system itself as a set of power relations and to inquire into
the matter of how it is structured. As a consequence, the candidates
for the role of structuring factors which have been identified in more
conventional works on Soviet elites - central control, regional influ-
ences, and patronage relations - appear in a rather unconventional
light. They are not regarded as operating directly on individual actors
but on the set of relations that bind the actors into a system.
The narrative is designed to move from the macro- to the micro-
level. It thereby introduces individual actors, who appear more and
more frequently as the discussion proceeds, in the context of those
relations in which their actions are embedded. Chapter 1 sets out in
some detail the methodology which the book follows and develops a
model for elite analysis congruent with this orientation by contrasting
it to the model that has been commonly employed in the field.
Appended to the end of this chapter is a brief description of this
study's site, the Belorussian Republic, which outlines the salient
historical factors bearing upon the analysis of the Belorussian elite in
the contemporary period.
Chapter 2 is an exercise in elite stratification. Here, the idea of
relations is used to construct a hierarchy of offices in the Republic
 Preface xiii

required for subsequent stages of analysis. Specifically, the relations

among offices is translated as the mobility of the actors who move
among them. The offices themselves are then ranked according to
their respective distances from an uppermost stratum of positions,
with 'distance' measured by the mobility patterns of their incumbents.
When a specified probability exists that the holder of a given office can
enter some position ranked in a stratum somewhere above him, then
the office which he occupies is ranked at one remove from (one
stratum below) the stratum which he has a certain probability of
reaching.
With a hierarchical ranking of offices in place, ensuing chapters take
up the heart of the empirical analysis, viz., the influences of
centralization, regionalism and patronage on the circulation of elites in
the system. Chapter 3, which tests for the centralizing effect, intro-
duces into Soviet elite studies the method of vacancy chain analysis.
This method abstracts from individuals, their attributes and the jobs
that they hold at a particular time in order to determine, in this
instance, whether the mobility patterns of the actors are systematically
shaped by the influence of the centralized nomenklatura. In the same
way that the foregoing chapter distinguishes between the nominal
rank of an office and its rank as determined by the probability for
upward mobility empirically associated with it, this approach distin-
guishes between nominal (the formal appointments mechanism) and
effective centralization and finds that the latter is of remarkably little
consequence in shaping the circulation process.
Chapter 4 replaces the framework of hierarchically ordered strata of
positions with the category of region and repeats the analysis. It finds
that a regionally based model of mobility is able to predict the
movement of personnel in the system with a considerable degree of
accuracy. Certain characteristics of the system when viewed in
regional terms, however, cannot be explained without recourse to the
stratified model of positions and the personal connections among the
actors that link them together into patronage groups.
Patronage is the topic of Chapter 5. With the results of the foregoing
vacancy chain analyses of macro-level characteristics of the personnel
system as a frame of reference, the discussion shifts at this point
toward the micro-level and focuses the vacancy approach on indi-
vidual actors whose mobility patterns evince mutual linkages that
suggest the presence of patronage ties. The data are subjected to two
techniques for discerning patronage affiliations and the patronage
groupings thereby identified become categories for carrying the
xiv Preface

investigation further along the route of micro-level analysis in the

chapters that follow.
Chapter 6 examines the influence of patronage ties on three sets of
events within the system. It seeks to determine, first, whether
affiliation with a given patronage group accounts for differential rates
of mobility in the system for those entering through various recruit-
ment channels. Secondly, it inquires into the career chances of a
particular sub-group of actors, women, in order to determine whether
these are affected by the respective patronage groups with which
various female politicians have been associated. Finally, it takes up the
matter of what might be called 'negative sanctions' - officially voiced
criticism, reprimands and publicly announced dismissals from office -
and asks whether patronage ties account for the rates at which
negative sanctions have been deployed and the effects which they
have had.
Chapter 7 discusses the political succession that took place in
Belorussia over the latter years of this study. Here, the factional
affiliations based on patronage ties are found to be the salient factor in
structuring the competition for office and in shaping the eventual
outcome. Moreover, since the succession in Belorussia began some
two years before the Brezhnev succession in Moscow, this episode in
many respects appears as a diminutive forerunner of the events that
subsequently transpired in the Soviet capital. Although the Brezhnev
succession ultimately determined certain aspects of the succession in
Belorussia, the analysis here shows that the personnel system in the
Republic cannot accurately be regarded as a collection of mere effects
which issue from some primary cause located in the Kremlin. Rather,
the process of elite circulation in Belorussia, taken in this case as
leadership replacement, has its own structure and moves largely
according to its own rhythms. In the end, these indigenous factors
have proven to be the decisive ones in accounting for the transfer of
power from one group to another. Or so it would seem, at least, when
we follow a method that privileges the forest over the tree, that
enables us to see actors in their relational aspect and to study these
relations in their own right.
 Acknowledgements

It has been my good fortune throughout the period that I have worked
on this book to have received much valuable criticism, advice and
encouragement from a number of very capable people. The concep-
tion of the project benefited from discussions with Dave Wilier, Bob
Antonio, Jerry Hough, Harrison White and Dan Nelson. I owe a
particular debt of gratitude to those who read and commented on my
work as it progressed. In particular, I would like to thank Ron Hill,
Stephen White, Joel Moses, George Breslauer, David Lane, Alastair
McAuley, Gene Huskey, Nick Lampert, Larry OToole, John Heilman
and Rachel Walker.
Assistance of another sort came from a second group of indi-
viduals. Bruce Reed supplied not only some very creative computer
programming for the vacancy chain analysis but an understanding
ear and some sound advice on many aspects of the project. Vlad
Toumanoff, Lee Sigelman and Michael Holdsworth lent their
encouragement to me at times when it mattered most. Vitaut and
Zora Kipel made available to me their knowledge of both Belo-
russia and Belorussian materials. Virginia Prickett typed successive
drafts of the manuscript with the skill familiar to those who know
her.
I am grateful for the funding provided to this project by the National
Council for Soviet and East European Research and the National
Science Foundation under Grant SES-8618055. I wish to thank Gerald
Johnson and Robert Montjoy, each of whom as my Department Head
at Auburn University slew bureaucratic monsters on my behalf. For
permission to reprint portions of my work that have previously been
published elsewhere, my appreciation goes to Edward Elgar and the
editors of Slavic Review and British Journal of Political Science. The works
in question are: 'Elite Stratification and Mobility in a Soviet Republic',
David Lane (ed.) Elites and Political Power in the USSR (Aldershot:
xvi Acknowledgements

Edward Elgar, 1988); 'Regionalism in a Systems Perspective:

Explaining Elite Circulation in a Soviet Republic', Slavic Review, Vol. 48
(Fall, 1989); 'Centralization and Elite Circulation in a Soviet Republic',
British Journal of Political Science, Vol. 19 (Jan. 1989).
 Method, model and historical
background

This chapter aims to locate the method, model and object of this study
within the field of research devoted to the analysis of Soviet political
elites. The first section examines the matter of setting or context with a
basic theoretical question in mind; namely, how might we conceptual-
ize the set of sociopolitical relations extant in the USSR which both
defines the system's elite(s) and structures their activity? Here, our
concern is to probe the characteristics of the Soviet form of organi-
zation and, in so doing, to highlight some of the issues associated with
elite analysis in the Soviet case.
The second section covers much the same ground from a methodo-
logical perspective. It presents an outline of the method and model
heretofore employed in Soviet elite studies, and argues that the
conventional approach, which focuses on individual actors and their
attributes, is hampered by some important limitations on the ques-
tions that it can pose and the conclusions that it can reasonably draw.
In order to overcome these shortcomings, a method is introduced
which directly incorporates into the analysis the relations among
actors in the system as they circulate through the array of elite
positions. This method, vacancy chain analysis, and a revised model
for the study of Soviet elites are then explicated in some detail.
Finally, the third section places the object of our study, political
elites in the Belorussian Soviet Socialist Republic (BSSR), in an his-
torical perspective. It takes up those national, socioeconomic and
political features of Belorussia's development which bear upon the
empirical analysis of elites in the contemporary BSSR.

Bureaucracy, personnel and the Soviet form of organization

Bureaucracy, as Max Weber appreciated so well, is a highly
refined and singularly effective system of power. In contrast to the
 An algebra of Soviet power

tendency in much contemporary scholarship to interpret the concept

of bureaucratic power narrowly, as the enlarged influence displayed
by formal organizations in the political life of this or that nation state,
Weber's concern was to understand bureaucracy itself as a form of life
whose logic worked in the direction of rationalized social control
through an impersonal mechanism that represented the last word in
both task accomplishment and human domination.1 The adjective
'impersonal' is of particular importance to the issue of bureaucratic
power as Weber saw it. On the one hand, the empirical characteristics
of modern bureaucracy - the location of authority in offices rather than
in individuals, the organization and gradation of such authority accord-
ing to written rules and so forth - emerged out of deep changes in the
structure of social relations which accompanied the passing of tradi-
tional society.2 Foremost among these was the introduction of commo-
dity relations endemic to the capitalist market economy.3 As Marx
understood, relations of this type are in fact social relations which
appear as relations among mere things.4 But it was Weber who
pursued the implications that this insight held for human organi-
zations in the modern world. In modern bureaucracy, in which
individual action transpires through the medium of an impersonal-
ized, rule-bound structure of authority, he discovered the human
embodiment of thing-like relations. Individuals operating within the
bureaucratic mode of organization find that their activity always
reduces to something outside themselves - the job description, the
work schedule - epitomized in the balance sheet of the capitalist firm
and its celebrated 'bottom line'. Relations of this sort enable the
thinking parts of bureaucracy to think in characteristically bureau-
cratic fashion, calculating costs and benefits for the organization
(rather than for the individuals who comprise it) and improving its
performance (but not necessarily the performance of individuals qua
individuals) by means of an ongoing rationalization of the extant set of
relations and routines within it.5
On the other hand, this impersonal form of power ensures at least
the appearance that the power to command, and the content of the
commands themselves, are not the product of some individual(s)
will(s), made, and susceptible to being unmade, by the action of
individuals. Rather, power and the commands which mediate it brook
no (rational) argument; they appear to flow out of the objective logic of
the situation. And well they might. The point, however, is that the
'objective logic of the situation' is itself constructed upon a power
relationship, one that functions all the more effectively because it
 Method, model and historical background

presents itself in impersonal, naturalized forms that are beyond the

control of the individuals who occupy roles within it.6 Through the
control mechanisms inherent in modern bureaucracy - each actor's
potential for upward mobility in the hierarchy of offices, the role of
letters of recommendation in transfers to other organizations, the
promise of pension benefits on retirement, and so on - individual
motivations are brought into agreement with organizational objec-
tives, producing thereby a relationship of domination in which, at its
apogee, a command of the dominators is received by the dominated as
if the latter 'had made the content of the command the maxim of their
conduct for its own sake'. 7
Couching the concept of bureaucracy in terms of a Weberian
ideal-type and specifying its social basis enables us to draw some
important distinctions with respect to Soviet organizations on an
abstract level. These, in turn, find their utility in framing the more
concrete categories by means of which we study these organizations
empirically. It is perhaps too often the case that the word 'bureau-
cracy' has been employed by Western analysts of the Soviet system in a
rather indiscriminate fashion, oriented to the appearance or outer shell
of Soviet organizations - which, after all, share certain of the character-
istics of modern bureaucracy (Soviet organizations, appear to be
ordered hierarchically, to operate on the basis of written regulations,
and so forth) - without tapping their internal structure and dynamics.
When the latter is our concern, however, we notice the absence of a
number of elements which are central to the bureaucratic phenom-
enon in capitalist states. The calculability and rationality for which
bureaucracy is known depend upon the commodity forms (especially,
monetization) of a market economy and either appear in truncated
fashion or disappear altogether in the Soviet context.8 Accordingly, as
Jerry Hough's well-known work showed some 20 years ago, Soviet
organizations do not evince a legal-rational basis for the organization
of authority such as we find in bureaucracies in advanced capitalist
systems.9 Soviet officialdom, too, seems to be organized around
certain non-bureaucratic or even anti-bureaucratic norms10 and dis-
plays orientations, such as a tendency toward the personal appro-
priation of public office,11 that are at odds with modern bureaucratic
practice as we know it. With such things in mind, some scholars have
preferred to think of Soviet organizations as variants of Weber's
(pre-modern) patrimonial bureaucracy.12 Terminological questions
are, however, of less interest to us here than is the matter of how
Soviet organizations structure the action of their members.
 An algebra of Soviet power

In an earlier study, I have drawn the conclusion that the Soviet

pattern of organization rests on 'weak structures' which, relatively
speaking, are ill-suited to sustain domination in Weber's sense of the
term. In sharp contrast to the impersonal relations of a bureaucratic
order, the ensemble of personalized relations extant in the Soviet form
of organization tends to structure the action of officials around
immediate and commonly identified incentives that have little if any
connection to honouring the commands issuing from nominal super-
iors.13 In the language of contemporary sociology, we can distinguish
the strong (impersonal) structures and weak (personal) ties14 associ-
ated with bureaucracy in advanced capitalist states from the weak
structures and attendant strong ties found in Soviet organizations.
These inject a powerfully personal element into Soviet personnel
systems and lead to two important considerations for their study.
First, the relative weakness of formal Soviet organizational struc-
tures in shaping the concrete activity of those within them cautions us
against making assumptions about the relations among actors who
occupy various organizational roles. Unlike our experience with
Western bureaucratic systems in which such roles tend to be reason-
ably well defined and are related one to another in specific ways, those
who enter Soviet organizations do not step into ready-made relations
of a bureaucratic type. Rather, the roles and relations among them are
infused with a largely personal element that sets the stage for a
considerable amount of negotiation among the parties concerned as to
the content of the roles themselves and how relations among them are
to be organized.15 The student of Soviet organizations, then, is above
all a student of the personnel who comprise them, for it is at this level,
rather than at the level of formal organizational design, that so much
of the basic determinants of organized activity are set in motion.
Secondly, the student of personnel is necessarily engaged in a
project that goes beyond the issues associated with personnel admin-
istration in a bureaucratic setting; personnel studies in the Soviet
context spill over into the area of power relations far more so than
would be true, ceteris paribus, for advanced capitalist systems. When
we consider the question of how power is organizationally deployed
in the USSR, how the policy mechanism functions (or fails) to ensure
that subordinates implement the decisions of superiors, it becomes
apparent that the main gear in this mechanism is the placement of
personnel. Unable to offer positive inducements such as substantial
salary increases, stock options, the promise of a partnership and so
forth, and lacking as well anything resembling the major negative
 Method, model and historical background

sanction found in capitalist countries, the threat of unemployment,

those who head Soviet organizations must rely primarily on the
exchange of appointments and promotions in return for compliance
with their substantive directives. In studying elite mobility in the
Soviet context, then, we are at the same time studying the concrete
operation of this singularly important mechanism of power.
Thirdly, the design of our study should benefit by taking these
points into account. A survey of the literature on Soviet elite studies
would point up the influence of certain background assumptions
rooted in the bureaucratic experience which seem largely out of place
in the Soviet milieu. The methodology that informs the present study
can be explicated by contrasting it to (a) the basic model which has
underpinned the great bulk of Western studies in this area and (b) the
specific methodology which they have employed.

Models and methods

The basic model relied upon by Western analysts of Soviet
16
elites might be described as the 'turnover model'. It utilizes indi-
vidual level data, considers one-to-one turnover in jobs (i.e., the
number of individual jobs that changed hands, often for specific time
periods) and employs such variables for incumbents and recruits as
age, education, nationality, sex, career history and so forth.17 The
turnover model of mobility is designed to tell us (1) the rate at which
jobs change hands, (2) the characteristics of incumbents as an aggre-
gate profile, and (3) those attributes among recruits which are likely to
be selected for as replacement occurs. Studies of this type have
produced a series of pictures that change over time, enabling analysts
to make certain empirical statements about elite composition and to
forecast trends by extrapolating from changes in elite composition.
However, as Bohdan Harasymiw has pointed out, 'we still have not
explained the phenomenon epitomized by the classic theorists' notion
of the "circulation of elites" . . . namely, "how do they circulate?"'18
The reason for this persistent lacuna in studies of the Soviet
leadership is simple enough; in the turnover model there is neither a
concept of, nor an empirical referent for, circulation. The turnover
model in fact does not concern itself with elite circulation as a process
but deals instead with the personal attributes of officeholders. These
are two quite different things. By establishing turnover as the focus of
attention and treating the attributes of individuals as the primary
concern, analysts employing this model tend to frame their basic
 An algebra of Soviet power

research questions in a way which is not especially conducive to

asking what seems to me to be the basic question: What does elite
circulation tell us about political power in the USSR? Rather, the
research interests associated with the turnover model19 lead to asking
the questions set out abstractly in Figure l.l. 20 This approach treats
the personal attributes of individuals who have risen to high office in
the Soviet Union as factors defining the elite in a given instance. That
is, the elite is considered from the perspective of how its members
'score' on the variable of personal attributes. These scores, which in
longitudinal studies change over time, are in turn regarded as indica-
tors of change in the policy orientations of the ruling elites or,
relatedly, as indicators of change in the Soviet political system. Here
the tacit influence of the 'bureaucratic' model is apparent. Whether
elite attributes are used as surrogates for policy orientations or
leadership statements on policy are employed,21 the analysis treats
such orientations as meaningful in themselves, assumedly because
the Soviet 'bureaucracy' can or will translate them into practice.
As to the second of the distinctions that we are drawing here,
Valerie Bunce is correct to point out that the field of Soviet elite studies
has relied exclusively on 'methodological individualism' as the prin-
ciple governing empirical analysis.22 As we have seen in our discuss-
ion of the turnover model, this approach regards individuals and their
attributes as the basic unit of analysis and attempts to correlate these
with mobility in order to analyse policy or systems change. The logic in
this method involves a certain leap from aggregated individual char-
acteristics to the characteristics of the system under consideration.
Absent, here, is a method oriented to the level of the system itself
(however we might define it in a given instance), one in which the
relations among individuals, rather than the skin-bound individuals
themselves, appear as the unit of analysis. Whereas the perspective
implicit in methodological individualism cannot but apprehend elite
circulation as the product of aggregated individual choices or inten-
tions,23 a method that gives primacy to the bundle of relations that
constitute a system would view it as the result of an interactive set of
opportunities and constraints to which individuals, qua individuals,
react but which they do not control.24
It goes without saying that conventional studies of elite mobility
have greatly expanded our knowledge of the individuals who at one
time or another constitute the elite(s) in the USSR. Moreover, the
changing profile of elite characteristics is not without implication for
elite behaviour. The life experiences that shape the outlook of a given
 Method, model and historical background

^_^_^Policy Orientation
Personal Attributes CIl.lAt e
E
« . . .
of Incumbents ^ Composition.
Systems Change

Figure 1.1 The basic model underlying Western analyses of Soviet

elites

generation and the rising educational level of those holding public

office in the Soviet Union, for instance, are important factors in
specifying the dimensions of leadership change in the Soviet system
today. But as much as a focus on individuals might tell us about the
orientations of the members of the elite at some point(s) in time, it
remains ill-suited to the tasks of examining the set of relations which
order the activity of these individuals and of answering the question of
how these relations might themselves be changing. In this respect, the
foregoing exegesis and critique of the field's conventions have been
intended to call attention to certain gaps in our knowledge which issue
from gaps in our methods. We can fill some of these by correcting the
bias implicit in methodological individualism, by recognizing, that is,
that individuals are neither the only nor necessarily the most appro-
priate unit of analysis that we might adopt. Since we intend to analyse
the relations among individuals that structure their concrete activity,
we require a method that incorporates the concept of relations into its
basic design. Proceeding in this way, we are also led to a reformulation
of the conceptual model which frames our empirical analyses of Soviet
elites.
Vacancy chain analysis, a method developed by Harrison C.
White,25 seems particularly well-suited to our purpose. It begins by
abstracting from individuals and focusing instead on positions, par-
ticularly on those that have fallen vacant. Once a vacancy has
appeared in some position, it can circulate within the system of offices
and form a chain in the process of doing so. That is, when a vacancy
occurs and is then filled by some incumbent in the system, another
vacancy has been created in the job which this incumbent has just left.
This vacancy, in turn, might be filled by another incumbent, creating
thereby another vacancy until the chain formed by the movement of
vacancies has passed outside the system (recruitment of a non-
incumbent). Alternatively, this process might be regarded as a
replacement chain composed of the actors (replacements) whose
movement in the system flows in a direction opposite to the flow of
 An algebra of Soviet power

X
Retirement

*.3

F
Recruitment

Figure 1.2 A vacancy chain encompassing five positions

* Letters indicate actors, numbers indicate positions. Solid lines
denote the movement of actors, broken lines, the movement of
vacancies

vacancies. Figure 1.2 illustrates this process by means of a hypo-

thetical example. In this instance, a vacancy has appeared in Posi-
tion 1, with the retirement of Actor A. Since B then fills the opening in
Position 1, the vacancy moves to Position 2 which B has just left. It
continues to circulate until a non-incumbent (Actor F) is recruited to
fill Position 5, at which point the vacancy has passed outside the
system and the chain terminates.
In subsequent chapters we shall have occasion to develop some of
the conceptual and mathematical aspects of the vacancy model as we
apply it to the analysis of our data. Here we are concerned with the
methodological advantages which it holds for the study of Soviet
elites.26 First, it repairs the deficiency that we noted in the turnover
model with respect to the issue of circulation. The vacancy model
analytically includes the concept of circulation and offers an immedi-
ate empirical interpretation for it: vacancies circulate in chains.
Secondly, the circulation of vacancies is cast within a relational
framework, their circulation in chains reports events within the
system that are themselves empirically linked. This is illustrated in
Figure 1.2 in which Actor F, for instance, enters the system because of
an opportunity which resulted from events having little if anything to
do with his/her own intentions or decisions. In the first instance, F's
entry into the system is occasioned by E's movement out of Position 5
and into Position 4. Similarly, E's movement is brought about by the
opportunity to move to Position 4, an event conditioned by the
movement of D and the resulting vacancy in his previous job.
Carrying forward this logic, it becomes clear that A's retirement and
F's recruitment are in fact related. This relationship, however, would
not be noticed were our focus on individuals and their attributes.
 Method, model and historical background

Centralization-
Regionalism -^-^ Elite Mobility • Policy Outcomes
Patronage-

Figure 1.3 Revised model for Soviet elite analysis

Viewing the process of elite circulation in this way allows us also to

make some revisions in the conventional model that underlies
Soviet elite studies. The model adopted here, as set out in Figure 1.3,
links elite mobility to the question of policy outcomes in the context of
those variables thought to influence the circulation process:27
centralization, regionalism and patronage. Although a direct analysis
of policy outcomes in the Belorussian Republic is beyond the scope of
this study, this model highlights the fact that in analysing elite
mobility we are simultaneously examining the relative weights of the
factors which shape such outcomes. In consonance with our discuss-
ion of 'bureaucracy' in the Soviet context, we can regard the presence
of effective centralization in the process of elite circulation in Belo-
russia as an indication of structural strength in the deployment of
political power. In this respect, the political centre, whether at the
all-union or republic level, would be seen as directly effecting the
mobility of elites and thereby controlling inducements (jobs, pro-
motions) which it can exchange for performance. Conversely, regional-
ism and patronage would influence elite circulation in the opposite
direction, contributing to the personalization of relations within Belo-
russia's formal organizations, fragmenting control over the personnel
process and, by implication, over the policy process as well.
Finally, the method employed in this study allows for both a
diachronic and a synchronic approach to the category of time and the
related phenomenon of the mobility of the actors within the system.
Mobility has conventionally been grasped in a diachronic fashion. It
concerns those snapshots taken at various points in time which, when
compared one to another, reveal certain changes in elite composition
that have resulted from changing patterns of mobility. A diachronic
approach to mobility is essential when the question of change is under
consideration and, accordingly, it is often employed in this study.
However, in the same way that vacancy chain analysis enables us to
see the links among what might otherwise be perceived as discrete
events within the system, it also opens another vista on the category of
time which conduces to a synchronic appreciation of mobility and its
10 An algebra of Soviet power

effects. From this vantage, we view events as if they were occurring all
at once. Mobility, when placed in synchronic perspective, can then be
used in novel ways in order to specify characteristics of the system
itself. In the following chapters, a synchronic concept of mobility is
employed to determine the hierarchical structure of the system, and
the influence of centralization, regionalism and patronage on the
circulation of elites within it. Before turning to an empirical analysis of
the relative effects of these factors on the circulation of elites in the
BSSR, however, a word by way of background on the particular site of
this study is in order.

Historical sketch
In discussing the history of any of the East European peoples,
one's narrative invariably inclines toward the semantic pole marked
out by terms such as 'difficult', 'troubled' and 'tragic'. This is par-
ticularly true of Belorussia. The name itself, 'White Russia' ('Belarus"
in the native tongue), provides an illustration of this. It first appeared
as a political-administrative designation referring to Russian lands
outside the zone of taxation during the period of the Tartar yoke. Its
official usage in documents dates from 1667 when it was applied by the
Russian government to the western lands annexed from the Lith-
uanian-Polish state. The name, however, did not enter the local
vernacular until the nineteenth century, at which time it was simul-
taneously banned from official administrative language due to the
nationalist or separatist nuances which it was believed to carry.28
Belorussia has historically designated a 'land between' and conno-
tated, correspondingly, a relatively 'backward' place governed and
exploited by contiguous nationalities.
The long epoch of serfdom in Belorussia was especially cruel,
retarding and even reversing the development of the broad masses of
the population. The burdens borne by those bound to the land in
Belorussia were made the heavier by the fact that more than economic
and social differences set masters apart from serfs. The pattern of
foreign landowning in which Poles and Russians appeared as masters
of the land added national, linguistic and religious differences as well,
with the result that enserfed Belorussians experienced conditions of
bondage that eclipsed feudalism's paternalistic face and enhanced in
equal measure its capacity for brutal exploitation. Some indication of
how this particular form of feudalism glaciated the development of the
Belorussian people can be taken from the fact that pagan traditions
 Method, model and historical background 11

and superstitions, similar to those described in Russia by Moshe

Lewin,29 endured longer in Belorussia than they did anywhere else in
the Slavic world.30
Those economic and demographic changes which signal the advent
of what we have come to call 'modern society' arrived later in
Belorussia than they did in the other European parts of the Russian
Empire. And when they did come they generally excluded the
Belorussians themselves. For the Russian Empire as a whole in 1897,
industrial workers accounted for some 1.43 per cent of the total
population. In Belorussia, this same statistic was only 0.5 per cent, and
a sizeable portion of this figure was composed of individuals who had
come from other parts of the Empire31 to find employment in the new
industrial enterprises, themselves the offspring of 'foreign' (i.e.,
Polish and Russian) capital.32
The development of a national consciousness among the various
peoples of East Europe seems to have been predicated on a certain
sequence or pattern of social and demographic changes. This
sequence begins with the concentration of a critical mass of the
indigenous population in towns whose social and occupational differ-
entiation is sufficient to support the emergence of a native intelli-
gentsia which in turn generates a particular idea of the nation. This
idea, communicated through the medium of a national literature,
incorporates the broader masses of the population into a national
identity as literacy spreads throughout the society.33 All of these
conditions were missing in the case of Belorussia. According to the
census of 1897, for instance, only a small minority (7.3 per cent) of
those residing in Belorussia's larger towns spoke the Belorussian
language.34 Overwhelmingly, the population centres were dominated
by Poles, Russians, Lithuanians and Jews, and it was these groups
who made up the professional and business classes. Urban-dwelling
speakers of Belorussian were primarily employed as labourers and
servants.35 The masses of the Belorussian people, as we have seen,
remained on the land and were largely isolated from those influences
which all around them pointed toward the awakening of a national
identity among the peoples of East Europe. Not only did Belorussia
evince the lowest level of literacy in the European part of the Russian
Empire, even its oral tradition of folklore was devoid of any national
idea and centred instead on an undifferentiated concept of man and
his (unhappy) lot.36 Absent, then, were both the orally transmitted
concept of nation, common among other East European peoples, and
an emerging national intelligentsia which might appropriate it as raw
12 An algebra of Soviet power

material to be fashioned into the poetry, prose and drama which

compose nationalism's cultural dimension in the modern period.
Indeed, the first literature to appear in the Belorussian vernacular was
written not by Belorussians but by Poles, Russians and Lithuanians
and it was often characterized by ridicule of, rather than reverence for,
a Belorussian national identity.37
Against this considerable set of adverse circumstances, a Beloruss-
ian national literature did begin to emerge by the end of the nineteenth
century. Paradoxically, however, the political expression of a national
consciousness in this same period seems to have taken on an intention-
ally Russian cast, designed to link Belorussian nationalists with the
major movement of the time, the anticipated Russian revolution.38
Given what we have seen with respect to the less-than-propitious
conditions for the development of a national consciousness in Belo-
russia, it is hardly surprising to find that the nationalist movement
which emerged at the beginning of this century remained small and of
marginal import in the events that shook and ultimately overthrew the
Empire.39
From out of the Russian Revolution, Civil War and Russo-Polish
War, emerged the first Belorussian state, the Belorussian Soviet Social-
ist Republic (BSSR). The Treaty of Riga (1921) established a western
boundary for the BSSR which detached from it and incorporated into
Poland some 38,600 square miles of land and some 3,460,900 Beloruss-
ians.40 During the interwar period, then, Belorussia was bifurcated into
the 'western territories' under Polish sovereignty and a BSSR which by
1926 included the provinces of Mogilev and Vitebsk, the Gomel' and
Rechitsa districts, and the capital, Minsk, with its surrounding dis-
tricts, amounting in all to a population of some 5 million.
During the twenties, Soviet policy emphasized the recovery and
development of national cultures. This brief period, with its literacy
campaigns, support for native literature and cultural forms and
reliance on national elites in government and administration, is
without parallel in the development of the bases of nationhood in the
BSSR.41 By the end of the twenties, however, such policies were
reversed, nationally oriented elites in and out of the Communist Party
became targets for repression in the BSSR, as they were throughout
the Soviet Union, and the development of a Belorussian national
consciousness received severe setbacks. In the western territories, the
situation was, if anything, worse. There the Polish authorities under-
took by 1927 an intensive campaign of Polonization that consciously
sought the eradication of all Belorussian cultural, religious and educ-
 Method, model and historical background 13

ational institutions. Ironically, the most active expression of indige-

nous Belorussian nationalism in the western territories during the
thirties came from the underground Communist Party of Belorussia
(KPB) whose presence in what was then Polish territory grew in
proportion to the oppression displayed by the Polish authorities.
In the BSSR itself, national development took the slower route of
laying the perhaps necessary but by no means sufficient conditions for
its further progress, namely, industrialization, urbanization and their
attendant responses in the fields of education and culture. Even as the
outward expressions of Belorussian nationalism were becoming more
and more truncated, its social, economic and, ultimately, cultural
foundations were being expanded as never before.42 The profile of
Belorussian industry was altered and enormously enlarged in the
thirties with the construction of machine-building, metal-working,
and textile plants. 43 New construction in the urban centres, of course,
drew in workers from the countryside. The urban sector of the
population increased by some 50 per cent over this period and by 1940
accounted for over one-fifth of the total population of the BSSR.44
The Second World War devastated Belorussia, laying waste her land,
demolishing her cities and claiming the lives of a quarter of her people.45
During the German occupation, civil society and state authority collap-
sed outside the larger cities. Belorussians on the land turned inward for
defence against both the occupiers and the assorted and fluid array of
bandit gangs who roamed the countryside, reviving thereby the ancient
institution of the mix and returning to subsistence agriculture.46 Resist-
ance was organized by the Soviets from the first days of the German
invasion,47 but the Soviet sponsored partisan movement did not
become a massed-based resistance against the Germans until the latter,
through prodigious applications of terror, succeeded in driving large
numbers of people into the sanctuaries of Belorussia's ample forests
where they would join up with partisan units. 48
Two aspects of the partisan movement are of particular concern to
our study of Belorussian politics. First, the future political leaders of
Belorussia were tempered in the crucible of partisan resistance.
Operating behind enemy lines and in infrequent communication with
Soviet authorities, the partisans enjoyed considerable autonomy in all
aspects of their activity and organization.49 Out of the shared experi-
ence of wartime resistance and governmental administration in those
areas liberated by the partisans, emerged a tightly knit cadre whose
members rapidly ascended the political ladder in the postwar years
and found their way into leading party and governmental posts in the
14 An algebra of Soviet power

BSSR by the mid fifties.50 The putative leader of this political faction,
Kyril T. Mazurov, became First Deputy Chair of the Council of
Ministers of the USSR and a full member of the Soviet Politburo in 1965.
He appears to have been instrumental in bringing other Belorussian
partisans to high office in Moscow, thereby turning this Belorussian
faction into an important political grouping on the national scene.51 In
subsequent chapters we shall often have occasion to examine the place
occupied by the Partisan faction within the constellation of contempo-
rary Belorussian politics,52 using the upper case to designate this
postwar political grouping.
Secondly, during the early postwar years, a period in which expres-
sions of political nationalism were acutely circumscribed in the USSR,
the Belorussian Partisans succeeded in constructing a particular
national myth53 which situated the ideals of a heroic Belorussian
national resistance movement within the larger framework of the
heroic sacrifices of the Soviet people. Accordingly, the liberation of
Belorussia was regarded as having been brought about by the com-
bined efforts of the Belorussian partisans and the Soviet Army,54 and
the official rites and monuments that commemorate this achievement
today highlight the idea of a joint undertaking. We have, in this
respect, the emergence of a uniquely national symbology appropriate
to Soviet circumstances, one which could, as such, openly propagate a
distinct Belorussian identity in a manner not overtly antagonistic to
things Soviet. The form of this myth, then, insured against irritating
Moscow's sensitivities on the national question. The political symbol-
ogy of the partisan myth was both appropriate to the context in which
this group acted and apparently quite instrumental in conveying to its
members and to others a certain 'worthiness' (we will stop short of
using the word 'legitimacy') for the members of this group to serve as
national leaders in the postwar years. The struggles and sacrifices of
the Partisans for and with the people during the German occupation
marked them as fit to lead. As communicated in the national myth,
this marking resulted from the long trial by fire that they endured and
the enormous difficulties that they overcame in the fight for liberation.
Hence, both their sacrifices and their abilities speak to the worthiness
of this group to lead the nation.55 To be sure, the question of
worthiness was never put to an open vote and its acceptance by the
population, therefore, was always open to doubt.56 Nonetheless,
under Soviet circumstances, it represented an acceptable form of
national expression, a symbology in the service of advancing the
political aspirations of its members, and an articulation of shared
 Method, model and historical background 15

experience that delineated a group identity and promoted the group's

cohesion.
The experience of the Partisan group should remind us of an
obvious fact that too frequently receives less than the attention it
warrants in the study of Soviet elites, namely, the role of indigenous
and often 'faceless' forces in shaping the context in which elites
emerge, organize and carry on political activity. In the same way that
wartime resistance produced a political group that established itself as
the Belorussian leadership some twelve years after the war's end,
other political factions who came to vie for power with the Partisans
developed their own bases and structures of organization and these,
too, cannot be adequately understood without reference to the exten-
sive changes that have occurred in postwar Belorussia. Industrial-
ization might be mentioned first. Minsk, the capital, is also the centre
of industry in the BSSR and Minsk's industry is primarily a product of
the postwar period. The expansion of machine-building, metal-
working and precision instruments production after the Second World
War, combined with the addition of large new firms such as the Minsk
Tractor Factory and Minsk Automatic Lines, have made Minsk into
one of the Soviet Union's leading industrial cities, accounting for some
25 per cent of total industrial production in the BSSR.57 Elsewhere,
large metal-working and machine-building industries have been
established.58 These, in turn, feed their product into the manufacture
of automobiles,59 heavy trucks60 and agricultural machinery,61 while
integrated potassium mining and chemical fertilizer production
(amounting to 50 per cent of the USSR's total)62 represent important
inputs into the agricultural sector. Belorussian industry has also
expanded its production of artificial fibres,63 textiles,64 and other
consumer durables.65
The industrialization of Belorussia has fundamentally changed its
demographic structure. Whereas only about one-third of the BSSR's
population lived in urban centres as recently as 1970,66 some 62 per
cent, out of a population which has now reached 10 million, were
urban residents by the end of 1985.67 These changes appear most
immediately in the political sphere in the growth and occupational
composition of the Communist Party of Belorussia (KPB). Between
1945 and 1978, for example, KPB membership (excluding candidates)
rose from 19,787 to 520,283, while the percentage of members who had
been recruited from working-class occupations in those same years
changed from 11.6 to 57.1 per cent.68 As Soviet authors themselves
point out, the increase in working-class recruitment reflected a
16 An algebra of Soviet power

national policy, established in 1965, that aimed to attract more workers

into the CPSU.69 But in the Belorussian case, at least, the impact of this
policy can only be interpreted as helping to accelerate a process
already underway.70
In subsequent chapters we shall observe a political expression of
Belorussia's postwar industrialization in the form of a political group
which emerged out of the industrial organizations in the capital. Its
members rose from the skilled sector of the working class to top
positions in enterprises, party and trade union organizations, then to
the elite jobs in the capital's party and governmental machinery and,
ultimately, to leading posts at the republic and all-union levels. What
is more, we shall see how the internal organization of this group, in
consonance with its members' occupational backgrounds and pro-
fessional roles, differed markedly from that of the Partisans whom
they replaced. Finally, the socioeconomic changes taking place in
postwar Belorussia in many respects appear to have weakened the
bases of national identity. Correspondingly, the rather muted sense of
nationalism associated with the political faction that emerged from
Minsk's industrial enterprises contrasts rather sharply with the
symbology employed by their Partisan predecessors.
Offering any generalizations regarding the eclipse of nationalist
sentiment within the Soviet context is particularly hazardous. A
number of studies, however, have reached such a conclusion for
contemporary Belorussia. The use of the Belorussian tongue, for
instance, declined considerably during the years between the 1959 and
1970 censuses,71 and among native speakers of minority languages in
the USSR, Belorussians in 1970 registered the lowest percentage still
regarding their own language as the one of primary use. Correspond-
ingly, the BSSR contains the highest percentage of native speakers
who are also fluent in Russian.72 These figures, no doubt, reflect the
decline of Belorussian language, and the concomitant increase in
Russian language, publications in the BSSR,73 a trend that has elicited
spirited public protest from prominent members of Belorussia's cul-
tural elite.74 But they may also have resulted from the less visible
process of cultural assimilation that has accompanied the postwar
industrialization and urbanization of the BSSR. The longstanding
situation of non-Belorussian dominance in the urban areas of Belo-
russia is epitomized today by the fact that the capital, Minsk, is the
most Russianized city in the BSSR.75 Upwardly mobile, second-
generation, urban residents would seem to have experienced the
centripetal pull of the Russian language and culture as they entered
 Method, model and historical background 17

into higher education and professional careers in a manner analogous

to that of, say, black elites in the United States today who tend to
exchange sub-cultural dialect for the conventional language structure
of white society as they move into mainstream careers. The relatively
weak sense of nationalism present in the contemporary BSSR,
however, offers us a certain advantage in the study of Soviet political
elites in as much as elite circulation in the Republic would less likely be
affected by the issue of indigenous nationalism or reactive cadres
policies coming from Moscow. Hence, the results of this study of
Belorussia might suggest something about elite circulation in the
RSFSR or in the other republics were nationalism somehow factored
out, and would serve as a point of departure for gauging the relative
influence of nationalism on the personnel systems of other republics
by comparing them to the Belorussian case.
 Hierarchy, mobility and a stratified
model

The rather modest purpose of this chapter - the construction of a

stratified model of offices for the Belorussian Republic which can be
used to analyse elite circulation in the chapters that follow - immedi-
ately confronts a thicket of complications raised by our discussion of
the Soviet form of organization. Taking, first, the question of intra-
organizational hierarchies, it would appear that the relative absence of
a bureaucratic pattern of organization in the USSR would raise serious
questions about the utility of relying simply upon the nominal desig-
nations of the various offices in order to arrive at an adequate
conception of how power and authority are actually distributed
among them. If, for instance, communications among these offices do
not consistently conform to bureaucratic rules whereby orders are
passed along an explicit chain of command, but instead involve
numerous cases in which middle-level offices are bypassed in the
course of direct communications between 'top' and 'bottom',1 we
cannot safely infer that the formal standing of offices in Soviet
organizations is coincident with their operational or practical sig-
nificance. Consequently, formal rank emerges as a rather imprecise
index of the gradations in power and authority that may in fact prevail
in Soviet organizations. In what follows, we find that this is also true
for the mobility of actors within formal organizational hierarchies.
Secondly, there is the matter of what may be regarded as multiple
hierarchies in the Soviet system - the array of party jobs, state jobs,
and jobs in mass organizations or Soviets - all of which intersect in
various committees and bureaux at various levels. Since the careers of
actors commonly span a number of these, the student of Soviet elites
must be something of a juggler, keeping a number of such balls in
motion simultaneously in order to chart promotions, demotions and
simple transfers. This issue of multiple hierarchies compounds, and is
in turn compounded by, the problems associated with determining
18
 Hierarchy, mobility and a stratified model 19

rank within organizations considered individually. If the names of

positions do not necessarily represent a reliable guide to their actual
standing within the system of offices, how might we compare posi-
tions in one organization with those in another and determine thereby
which jobs are above, below or on a par with others? 2
Finally, the specific mechanism for filling positions in the Soviet
system, the nomenklatura, introduces yet another set of difficulties. We
know that elite mobility occurs through the medium of the nomenkla-
tura system of appointments. One gets a position, a promotion and so
on on the basis of one's name being entered on these appointments'
lists.3 We also know that the nomenklatura system enables one organi-
zation, the party, to 'interfere' with the staffing of other organizations,
such that moves across hierarchies - from, say, a party to a soviet office
or vice versa - may in fact be moves within a single nomenklatura.4
Moreover, appointment powers are staggered in this system such that
the top official in a given organization will likely appoint some of his
staff but not his immediate subordinates. Consequently, officials are
often beholden to others outside their respective organizations for
their positions and career opportunities. 5 The fact that appointments
in many cases are made by units at one administrative level on the
basis of nominations and/or recommendations issuing from their
counterparts at lower levels or from other units attached to different
administrative hierarchies produces a situation in which we are at a
loss to know who in fact appointed whom and, as a result, where the
actual lines of responsibility among officials lie. 6
Previous attempts at mapping out an explicit hierarchy of positions
in the Soviet system have in my view given too little attention to these
peculiar features of Soviet organization. Tacitly, the assumption
seems to have been that there is a hierarchy 'out there' which the
analyst can locate.7 Location, in turn, has been largely nominal; a
position's name and the duties, authority, or importance known or
thought to be associated with it would place it above, below, or on par
with some other position.8 As a consequence, analysts have tended to
focus on the characteristics of this job or that - its formal rank, whether
it is represented on central committees, the size of the organization in
which it exists, the 'importance' of the unit in the economy, and so on
- and the drawing of comparisons between these characteristics and
those of other jobs. This method would likely encounter few if any
difficulties were we dealing with hierarchies in advanced capitalist
systems. But when applied to organizations of the Soviet type it
produces results that are difficult if not impossible to validate.
20 An algebra of Soviet power

While retaining the same objective - the specification of a hierarchy of

positions in order to gauge elite mobility - this study departs from the
nominal method of ranking conventionally employed. Rather than
treating hierarchy and mobility as two separate phenomena, which is
the common approach, we shall conjoin them. In so doing it becomes
possible (a) to see each as a function of the other and (b) to reverse their
order of determination. If we wish to specify a hierarchy in order to
study mobility, might we not study mobility in order to specify a hier-
archy? This is the tack taken here. The hierarchy of positions in our
Belorussian sample will be determined by the probabilities displayed by
incumbents in a given set of jobs for reaching positions grouped into
strata above them. The hierarchy of positions generated by this method
avoids the problems associated with nominal ranking by allowing empi-
rical patterns of mobility to designate which jobs occupy which ranks.
Before going further, we might underline some of the assumptions
and implications associated with this method of ranking. First, we are
bracketing the notion of an objective hierarchy based on the names of
offices. In this approach there is no a priori reason to assume that jobs
with the same name also share the same rank, nor is there reason to
designate jobs as above or below one another simply on the basis of their
respective appellations. As we shall see in what follows the assigning of
jobs to strata in accordance with their probabilities of transition to higher
strata yields results that are often at odds with nominalist assumptions
regarding both the equivalence and the gradation of positions.
Secondly, the hierarchy of job stratification produced by the method
employed here is specific to time and place. It cannot claim to be 'the'
hierarchy of positions in Belorussia; even less should it be taken as a
ready-made hierarchy applicable to other republics in the USSR. Its
status is restricted to the Belorussian Republic over the period,
1966-86. This characteristic of the method follows from the purpose
for which the method was devised, namely, to analyse elite mobility in
this republic over this period of time. Hence, what is generalizable is
not the specific results derived from the method (these belong to time
and place) but the method itself. That is, those analysing Soviet elites
at any level might use this method for delineating elite stratification in
the context of their own data and research interests.

Data and method

In order to employ the principal method adopted in this study
for the analysis of elite circulation in the BSSR, the method of vacancy
 Hierarchy, mobility and a stratified model 21

chain analysis, a more or less complete inventory of positions and

incumbents in the Belorussian Republic is required. This consider-
ation rules out the time-saving device of using data sets that have been
prepared by organizations such as Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty or
the CIA, or of consulting the biographical sketches which appear in
Soviet publications. Although these sources might assist in the task of
compiling a full inventory of positions and incumbents, they are
nonetheless themselves insufficient for our purposes. The reason for
this insufficiency is straightforward enough: the data compiled by
these agencies are organized around individual actors rather than
positions. Consequently, these sources may tell us which jobs a
particular actor held over the span of his career, but they do not tell us
whom the actor replaced when he assumed a given position nor who
replaced him when he left a certain job. Complete career histories for a
set of actors do not, that is, translate into what our method of analysis
requires as a data base - a complete set of positions and the actors who
filled them at one time or another.
In order to generate the requisite data base, it was necessary to
follow personnel changes in the Belorussian elite by systematically
reading a number of Soviet newspapers and journals.9 In the course of
doing so, a file was opened for each officeholder whose name
appeared in these publications. (Military offices constitute a distinct
personnel system and, as such, were not recorded as part of the data
set.) Alongside the individual's name in each file were entered the
initial position listed for him plus all subsequent jobs which he held as
these were reported in the data sources. Once these files for the
period, January, 1966-June, 1986, were complete, a computerized data
set was constructed wherein each actor appeared as a 'case/ and to
each 'case' was appended a code that designated the position held by
the actor in specified years. This yielded a matrix of 3,127 rows
(officeholders) and 21 columns (each a one-year interval over the
period, 1966-86) into which the 2,034 jobs which appeared in the
sample were entered.
To accommodate the purpose of tracking the mobility of actors, a
range of hierarchically ordered positions is called for. Consequently,
the scope of data collection was designed to include incumbents in
factory-level jobs at (assumedly) the lower end of the hierarchy and
those occupying certain all-union jobs at the upper end. The array of
positions spanned the following hierarchies: Communist Party of
Belorussia (KPB), governmental positions in the Belorussian Republic
(ministeries, state committees and Soviets), Komsomol, trade union,
22 An algebra of Soviet power

cultural and educational posts. The vertical range extended from

republic-level positions in these hierarchies through oblast' (and, for
party and soviet positions, raion) level jobs, and to the positions of
directors (and in some cases deputy directors) and the secretaries of
primary party organizations and trade union presidents in large
enterprises. Additionally, 24 jobs at the all-union level known to have
been taken by former officeholders in Belorussia were included.
The matrix of officeholders/years (1966-86) with offices as the
entries was then transformed into a matrix of offices/years (1966-86)
wherein the entries were the officeholders. 10 This matrix of 2,034 rows
(each representing a job) and 21 columns (each designating a year) is
illustrated in Table 2.1. Each actor who held a given position at the end
of a particular year would then occupy that cell in the matrix desig-
nated by the intersection of the corresponding row (position) and
column (year). Row entries change with mobility into and out of the
positions which designate the row. This is illustrated in row 3 of Table
2.1 by the replacement of D. F. Filimonov by V. F. Mitskevich as
Secretary of the Central Committee of the KPB in charge of agriculture
in 1968.
With this position/year matrix for the data set in place, the next step
in generating a hierarchy on the basis of transition probabilities to
higher strata was to select the top stratum itself. A number of
considerations bear upon this choice. This stratum functions as the
ultimate 'destination' of all those holding jobs in the Belorussian
Republic. Since jobs are to be ranked in accordance with the prob-
abilities which their incumbents have for reaching higher positions,
and since this first stratum will therefore define a second stratum
which will, in turn, define a third and so on, it is clear that the first
stratum should be limited to top jobs but at the same time be large
enough to accommodate the purpose of generating a second stratum
which is itself sufficiently large to generate a third, etc., such that the
hierarchy thereby derived will contain a number of strata suited to the
purpose for which the model was devised.
With these considerations in mind, two sets of positions were
selected for the top stratum. The first set is composed of those jobs
whose incumbents regularly held positions on the Buro of the Central
Committee of the KPB (i.e., those to whom a seat on the Buro was
awarded at at least four of the five congress of the KPB held during the
time frame of the study). There is no reason to believe that these jobs
are all equal in their importance. They probably are not. The point is
only that regular membership on the Buro, the highest decision-
Table 2.1. Sample position matrix for Belorussian Republic, 1966-86

1966 1967 1968 ... 1986

1. First Secretary P. M. Masherov P. M. Masherov P. M. Masherov ... N. N. Slyun'kov

of KPB
2. Second Secretary F. A. Surganov F. A. Surganov F. A. Surganov ... G. G. Bartoshevich
of KPB
3. Secretary of D. F. Filimonov D. F. Filimonov . V. F. Mitskevich ... N.I. Dementei
KPB (Agriculture)

2,034
24 An algebra of Soviet power

making organ in the Republic, defines a particular set of jobs which

are set apart from all others by virtue of their incumbents' mem-
bership on a body that can be regarded the uppermost layer of the
Republic's elite.
A second set of jobs selected for the top stratum is composed of
national positions to which Belorussian officeholders moved during
the course of their careers. The inclusion of this group follows again
from the purpose for generating the positions hierarchy, namely, in
order to study elite circulation and mobility in Belorussia. Here, the
assumption is that moving into one of these all-union positions is
equivalent to moving into one of the jobs regularly represented on the
Buro of the KPB. In either case, a promotion to the top stratum has
occurred. Stratum 1 jobs at the all-union level were defined as execu-
tive positions, whether in the party or state apparatuses, at the level of
deputy minister of, or, for the party, deputy head of a department of
the Secretariat of the Central Committee or those with formal rank-
ings above these (first deputy, minister, etc.).11 The two sets of jobs
yielded a top stratum numbering 25 positions, 13 of which were
regularly represented on the Buro of the KPB, 12 of which were
executive jobs at the national level.
Having assigned these two sets of positions to Stratum 1, it became
clear that such a ranking would not serve the purpose of generating a
sizeable second stratum for the hierarchy. That is, there is a relatively
high frequency of circulation among those holding jobs in the top
stratum and a rather low degree of mobility into this stratum.
Moreover, if regular Buro membership and executive jobs at the
national level were the criteria for inclusion into Stratum 1, might not
consistency suggest that irregular Buro membership and sub-
executive jobs at the all-union level constitute the criteria for mem-
bership in Stratum 2? This was the approach adopted. To all those
jobs that would appear in Stratum 2 by virtue of their transition
probabilities to jobs in Stratum 1 were added at the onset 15 positions,
nine of which were heads of either ministerial departments or sectors
of the CPSU Secretariat, six of which were infrequently represented
on the Buro of the KPB or were regularly candidate members of that
body.
Once the positions comprising Stratum 1 had been specified and
those comprising Stratum 2 had been partially specified, a computer
program was designed to create succeeding strata for the remainder of
the jobs in the data set and to assign individual jobs to individual
strata on the basis of the formula:12
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
 print, and yet we had to send to England for paper to do the
job. Also all the pronunciation marks for Webster’s dictionary
were to be put in, and we did not have the type or the
matrices. I had to have the letters cut on wood, and matrices
made; this was a world of trouble. Some of the letters were
cut over half-a-dozen times or more, and after all they were
far from perfect. I also had a set of shaped music types cut,
and this took a deal of time and pains to get them all properly
cut, as also to get the matrices made. I finally succeeded
quite well in both respects.... I also experimented not a little in
stereotyping, and succeeded in doing fair work. I trained one
boy who stereotyped Matthew before I left. In order to carry it
on effectually and rapidly I had a furnace and press made and
fitted up, which after sundry changes worked very well.... I
also had a new style of case for Chinese type made, which I
think will be an improvement on the old. I also had a complete
and thorough overhauling of the matrices, reassorted them
all, and had new cases made. This was a serious job, but it
will I am sure prove a very great help to the efficient working
of the establishment.

He consented to manage the press only until a competent man

could be secured to take it off his hands. When casting about for
such a person, his mind had been directed to his brother John,
nearly a year before he was himself forced into this position. John
had hoped to go to college, and to prepare for the ministry, and to go
out as a missionary, but, on account of certain tendencies developed
as to his health, he was compelled to abandon his purpose. As to his
mechanical gifts and his ability to turn them into use in a great
variety of ways, he resembled Calvin; and the latter was so confident
that John could soon fit himself to be a competent superintendent of
the press at Shanghai that he advised the Board of Missions to make
inquiry in regard to him. The result was that eventually he was
selected for the place, and he arrived in China early in August, 1871.
Before he could satisfactorily enter on his duties it was necessary for
him to acquire some knowledge of the language and to acquaint
himself with the business committed to his charge. This detained
Calvin until late in that year; and after a period of some three months
spent at Tengchow, he returned to Shanghai to assist John in moving
the press to new and much better premises that had been
purchased. The moving proper was a heavy job, requiring a week of
hard, dirty labor. The distance was about a mile, mostly by water, but
by land a hundred or more yards at either end. While thus engaged,
although he was no longer officially at the head of the business, he
took the main charge, so as to allow his brother to give his time
chiefly to the acquisition of the language and to other things that he
needed to learn.
The new place is the same now occupied by the press in Peking
Road. Under the superintendency of Rev. G. F. Fitch, it has become
the center not only of the Presbyterian missions, but of the general
missionary activity all over China. In writing to his brother as early as
November, 1869, he said of this plant: “It is a very important place,
and would give you an extensive field for doing good. The
establishment is not very large, it is true, as compared with similar
establishments in such cities as New York or Philadelphia; yet it is
the largest and best of the kind in China. It not only does all the
printing for all our missionaries, but a great deal of job work for
others; besides making and selling a large amount of type.” After he
had completed his term of the management, and while helping John
to get into the traces, he wrote to one of the secretaries of the Board:

I am not in favor of enlargement, but I would be very sorry

to see the present efficiency of the press curtailed. It is doing
a great and a good work not only for our missions, but for all
China. It has exerted a prodigious collateral influence both in
China and in Japan, affording facilities for the production of all
kinds of scientific books, dictionaries, and so forth. Aside from
any general interest in the missionary work, having at no
small sacrifice left my proper work and given more than a
year to the press, and also having a brother here in charge of
it, I feel a lively interest in its future.
 The last record that has come down to us concerning his work
there is: “We have just sold to the Chinese government a large font
of Chinese type. They are going to use movable metal type. This is a
large step for them to take, and it will do good. China yields slowly,
but she is bound to yield to Christianity and Christian civilization.”
At no subsequent period of his life had he any part in the
management of a printing establishment, but indirectly he continued
to have much to do with the press. He was a member of a joint
committee of the Shantung and the Peking mission, in charge of
publications, and as such he had to acquaint himself with what was
needed, and with what was offered, so as to pass intelligent
judgment. Unofficially and as a friend whose aid was solicited, he
revised one or more of the books which his associates submitted to
him for criticism. At the General Conference of Missionaries, held at
Shanghai in 1877, a committee, of which he was a member, was
appointed to take steps to secure the preparation of a series of
schoolbooks for use in mission schools. Not long afterward he
published an elaborate paper on the subject, discussing in it the
character which such publications should have, and especially
calling attention to the need of peculiar care as to the Chinese words
which ought to be employed in the treatises on the sciences. That
committee diligently set itself to work, and initiated measures for a
rather comprehensive set of books by various missionaries to meet
the want recognized in this general field. He was himself called upon
to prepare several books, some of which he was willing to undertake;
others he put aside as not properly falling to him. In one or two
instances he claimed for himself precedence as to treatises
suggested for others to write. Some friction occurred, and when the
Conference met again in 1890 that committee was discharged, and
an Educational Association, composed of missionaries familiar with
the needs of schools, and confining its functions more exclusively to
the publication of books for teaching—largely under his leadership—
was formed. He was its first chairman. This change he had warmly
favored, and he was an active member of the Association. In it he
was chairman of a committee on scientific terms in Chinese, a
subject of great difficulty, and of prime importance in the preparation
of text-books. In the subsequent years he was so much occupied
with the revision of the Mandarin Bible, and with other duties, that he
could give to the technical terms only a secondary place in his
activities. Still, six years after he accepted this chairmanship he
says: “I have collected a large number of lists of subjects for terms in
chemistry, physics, mathematics, astronomy, geology, metallurgy,
photography, watch-making, machinery, printing, music, mental and
moral philosophy, political economy, theology, and so forth.”
Subsequently he continued this work.
The first literary production of his own pen in Chinese was a tract
on infant baptism; this was called forth by local conditions at
Tengchow. A small sheet tract, entitled “A Prayer in Mandarin,” also
followed early. As chairman of the committee appointed by the
Educational Association, he made a report on chemical terms, and
recommended a new and distinctively Chinese method for the
symbols in that science. This was printed.
In a preliminary report of the Shanghai press, made in September,
1871, he, in a list of books in course of preparation, mentions under
his own name as author the following: “1. Catechism on Genesis,
with answers to the more difficult questions,—finished, needing only
a slight revision. 2. An explanation of the moral law as contained in
the ten commandments,—half-finished. 3. Scripture Text-Book and
Treasury, being Scripture references by subjects, supplying in great
part the place of a concordance,—one-third finished.” All of these
had been under way for several years, but had been frequently
shunted off the track by other imperative work. Very soon after that
date the catechism was published. He had a good deal to do with
Julia’s “Music Book,” especially in coining appropriate terminology,
though he never claimed joint authorship in it. Along with Dr. Nevius,
he published a hymn book for use in Chinese services; and down to
the close of his life, especially on a Sabbath when he did not preach,
he now and then made an additional Chinese version of a hymn. In
fact, whenever he heard a new hymn that especially moved him he
wished to enrich the native collection by a translation of it into their
speech. One which the Chinese came greatly to like was his
rendering of the Huguenot song, “My Lord and I.” A subject that was
always dominant in his mind and heart was the call to the ministry,
and it was significant that one of the last things on which he worked
was a translation of the hymn which has the refrain, “Here am I, send
me.” It was not quite finished when his illness compelled him to lay
down his pen; but recently at a meeting of the Chinese student
volunteers, constituting a company rising well toward one hundred
and fifty, that hymn was printed on cards, and a copy was given to
each of these candidates for the ministry. In 1907 he had carried a
theological class through the Westminster Shorter Catechism, and
as an outcome his translation was published. This is the last
religious book he made in Chinese. During his long service as a
missionary he taught a number of theological classes in various
studies, and his lectures were regarded as very superior, but he
published none of them.
His schoolbooks all originated in the necessities of his own work
as a teacher. The first thus to force itself upon his attention was an
arithmetic. He was already at work on it in 1868, and it went to press
while his brother John was superintending the plant at Shanghai.
The preparation of such a book, to one unacquainted with the
conditions under which this one was made, may seem to have been
a rather easy undertaking, and to have required little more than a
sufficient mastery of the Chinese language and of English; yet there
were some perplexing questions that arose in connection with it. For
instance, the method of writing numbers horizontally was wholly
unknown to the Chinese. Should the new arithmetic use the western,
or should it retain the Chinese method? To retain the Chinese would
be to train the pupils in a usage that would be confusing in
subsequent reading of western mathematics; to abandon it would be
equally confusing in printing the text of the book, which, according to
Chinese usage, must be arranged perpendicularly. The difficulty was
gotten over by duplicating each pattern example, giving it once
horizontally and once perpendicularly. Pupils using the book were
permitted to take their choice in performing their work, but in the text
proper all numbers appeared vertically. Such lines as those dividing
the numerator and denominator of a fraction stood perpendicularly,
with the figures to the right and the left. Until he published his
arithmetic, the Chinese numerals had been employed; he introduced
the Arabic. At the dawn of the new era subsequent to the Boxer
outbreak, almost the first book in demand by Chinese teachers and
pupils outside the mission schools was a western arithmetic; and
among others put upon the market were many “pirated” editions of
Mateer’s book, printed on cheap paper and with wooden blocks. The
publishers had not yet learned the significance of “copyright.” The
circulation of the book, however brought about, had at least the
effect of immediately increasing the reputation of its author among
the scholarly classes outside the church. Of the editions issued by
the press at Shanghai tens of thousands of copies have been sold.
Dr. Fitch writes that “it is impossible to state the total number,” and
that “the book has gone into all parts of the empire.”
In October, 1884, he submitted to the schoolbook committee of the
Educational Association the manuscript of his geometry, and in doing
so he said of it:

It is the result of much pains and labor.... The book is

written in plain Wen-li, and much pains has been taken to
make it smooth in style and accurate in meaning. In the few
equations used I have introduced the mathematical signs
employed in the West, of which I have given a full explanation
in the beginning of the book.... Mathematical signs and
symbols are a species of universal language, used alike by all
civilized nations, and it is unwise to change them until it is
absolutely necessary. The young men who have given most
effective assistance in the preparation of this geometry are
decided in their opinion that we should not change or garble
the mathematical symbolism of the West, but give it to them in
its integrity. The only change made is in writing equations
perpendicularly instead of horizontally,—a change which is
necessitated by the form of Chinese writing.

The book was published the following year. To the same

committee he reports in March, 1882, that his algebra was then all in
manuscript, and only needing revision and some rearrangement
before printing. The geometry was followed by his algebra, first part.
These have had a large sale, though, because fewer studied this
branch, not the equal of the arithmetic.
On January 14, 1908, he sent to the manager of the press the
preface to the second volume of his algebra, which covers the same
ground as the “University” edition in the United States. Of this Dr.
Hayes says: “Over twenty years ago he began the preparation of
Part II of his algebra, and the draft then made was used in
manuscript for many years. Other duties pressed upon him, and he
was compelled to lay it away unfinished. Yet he had not forgotten it,
but from time to time he would make a step in advance. It was only a
few months before his death that the work was completed and
published.”
There were a number of other books which he planned, on some
of which he did considerable work, but none of which he completed.
One of these was so colossal in its projected scope and scholarship
that it deserves special notice because indicative of the large things
to which early in his missionary career he was already eager to give
his time and abilities. This was a Mandarin dictionary. In its
preparation he sought to associate with himself Rev. Chauncey
Goodrich, of Peking; and in writing to him under date of June 6,
1874, he thus stated his conception of the work:

My idea of the book is a dictionary of the spoken language

of north China, in all its length and breadth, including on the
one hand all the colloquialisms that the people use in
everyday life,—all they use in Chi-li and in Shantung, and in
all the Mandarin-speaking provinces, so far as we can get it,
noting, of course, as such, the words and phrases we know to
be local. Further, let it include as a prominent feature all sorts
of ready-made idiomatic phrases, and in general all
combinations of two or more characters in which the meaning
coalesces, or varies from the simple rendering of the separate
characters.

Considerable preliminary work had already been done, when the

death of Mrs. Goodrich compelled her husband to withdraw from the
partnership; and the project was abandoned by Mateer, though with
a hope that it might be resumed. In 1900, however, as the fruit of this
and kindred studies he published an analysis of two thousand one
hundred and eighteen Chinese characters. This little book was
designed to help children in dictation exercises to write characters,
and is still largely used for this purpose by mission schools. The
huge dictionary, though never completed, had three direct
descendants. With Dr. Goodrich it produced first a Chinese phrase
book, and then a pocket Chinese-English dictionary, which for brevity
and comprehensiveness is a marvel, and which is regarded by
almost every student of Chinese as a necessity. In marked contrast
with these two volumes is an immense dictionary left behind in
manuscript by Dr. Mateer. It is wholly in Chinese; and as it lies
unfinished it occupies more than a cubic foot of space, and consists
of a set of volumes. No comprehensive dictionary of the Chinese
language has been published for two hundred and fifty years, and
the last issued had been mainly classical. The object of this was to
supply the evident need of a great new work of that sort. One
insurmountable difficulty encountered was a phonetic arrangement
commanding common usage. None had the requisite approval.
Fortunately, on this undertaking Dr. Mateer did not spend his own
time, except so far as that was necessary to direct the preparation of
it by his scribes when they were not otherwise employed.
In his letter to his college classmates in 1897 he says that he has
“well in hand a work on electricity, and one on homiletics prepared
when teaching theology.” Neither of these was finished and
published. To his college classmate, S. C. T. Dodd, Esq., he wrote in
1898 that he was trying also to finish a work on moral philosophy. In
March, 1878, he wrote to Dr. W. A. P. Martin, of Peking: “You will
remember probably that when you were here I spoke of my intention
to make a natural philosophy by and by. You said, ‘Go ahead,’ and
that you would retire in my favor by the time mine was ready, say, ten
years hence. If I am spared I hope to have the book ready within the
time, if not sooner. As you know, natural philosophy is my hobby, and
I have taught it more thoroughly probably than has been done in any
other school in China. I intend when I visit America to prepare myself
with the material and the facilities for such work.” He was not able to
find time for this work; and when later Dr. Martin invited him to write
for the revised edition of his treatise the chapter on electricity, this
privilege had for the same reason to be put aside. He had also
advanced far toward the completion of a translation of “Pilgrim’s
Progress” into Mandarin.
His “Mandarin Lessons” was published early in 1892, and
immediately commanded a success even larger than its author may
have anticipated. Ever since, it has gone on toward a more general
use by foreigners wishing to master the language, and has now far
outstripped every other work of its kind. He was a quarter of a
century in making the book. June 28, 1873, he made the following
entry in his Journal concerning it:

Most of last week and this I have spent in making lessons

and planning a much larger number than I have made. Mr.
Mills urged me to work at them for Dr. ⸺’s benefit, as he did
not seem to take hold of Wade. I did not think of what a job I
was sliding into when I made three lessons for Maggie a few
years ago. I have now laid out quite an extensive plan, and if I
am spared I trust I shall be able to finish it, though it will take
a deal of work. I believe that I can produce a far better book
than any that has yet been brought forth. I was not intending
to do this work now, and cannot work much more at it, as
other matters imperatively demand attention.

Guided by the hint in this quotation, we are able to trace the book
still farther back to its very beginning. June 20, 1867, he said in his
Journal: “Maggie Brown [Julia’s sister] has been pushing on pretty
lively with the Chinese. I made her lessons for a good while, which
she studies, and now she is reading ‘The Peep of Day.’ I tried to
make her lessons with a view to bringing out the peculiarities of
Chinese idiom. It led me to a good deal of thinking and investigating.
I have a mind to review and complete the work, and may some day
give it to the world. My great difficulty is in classifying the results
attained.”
 As the years went by his ideas of the plan for the work took
definite shape. In one of his letters concerning it he wrote:

Each lesson illustrates an idiom, the word idiom being

taken with some latitude. The sentences, as you will see, are
gathered from all quarters, and introduce every variety of
subjects. I have also introduced every variety of style that can
be called Mandarin, the higher style being found chiefly in the
second hundred lessons. The prevailing object, however, is to
help people to learn Mandarin as it is spoken. I have tried to
avoid distinct localisms, but not colloquialisms. A large
acquaintance with these is important, not to say essential, to
every really good speaker of Mandarin. It is, of course,
possible to avoid the most of them, and to learn to use a
narrow range of general Mandarin which never leaves the
dead level of commonplace expressions, except to introduce
some stilted book phrase. This, however, is not what the
Chinese themselves do, nor is it what foreigners should seek
to acquire. Many colloquialisms are very widely used, and
they serve to give force and variety to the language,
expressing in many instances what cannot be expressed in
any other way. I have tried to represent all quarters, and in
order to do so I have in many cases given two or more forms.

In the pursuit of his plan he sought the aid of competent scholars

in the north and in central China, so as to learn the colloquialisms
and the usage of words; also in the preparation of a syllabary of the
sounds of characters as heard in each of the large centers where
foreigners are resident. To accomplish this he also traveled widely.
Late in 1889, after a summer spent in studying the dialects of China,
he, in company with Julia, made a three months’ trip to the region of
the Yangtse, going down on the Grand Canal, spending a month on
the great river, and remaining a month at Nanking; always with the
main purpose of informing himself as to the current Mandarin, so as
to perfect his book. This tour enabled him to give it the final revision;
and in his opinion it “more than doubled the value” of the “Lessons.”
As finished, they were a huge quarto of six hundred pages, which
with the help of Mrs. Julia Mateer he saw through the press down at
Shanghai. In 1901, assisted by Mrs. Ada Mateer, he issued a more
elementary work of the same general nature.
The protracted study and care which he put upon the “Lessons”
were characteristic of him in all his literary productions. Upon this
subject no one is better qualified to bear testimony than is Dr.
George F. Fitch, Superintendent of the Presbyterian Mission Press,
at Shanghai, who speaks from direct personal observation. He says:

One very marked characteristic of Dr. Mateer was the

almost extreme painstaking with which he went over any work
which he was getting ready for publication; revising and re-
revising, seeking the judgment of others, and then waiting to
see if possibly new light might dawn upon the subject. I
remember reading shortly after I came to China the
manuscript of a paper which he had prepared with great labor,
upon the much-mooted “term question”; and in which he had
collected, with infinite pains, seemingly a great number of
quotations from the Chinese classics and other native works,
bearing on the use of Shen as the proper word for God in
Chinese. I urged him to publish at once, as I thought it might
be useful in helping settle that question. But he stoutly
refused, saying that it was not yet complete. Nor did it finally
see the light, in print, until nearly twenty years afterward.

None of his books at all reveal the protracted and toilsome

process of the preparation. We see only the result of years of
research. For instance, in his library there was a long row of Chinese
books each one of which showed a large number of little white slips
at the top. Each one of this multitude of marks had been placed
there by some student whom he had employed respectively to read
works in Chinese likely to use the word Shen, in order to indicate the
passages at which he needed to look. All these were canvassed,
and the different shades of meaning were classified.
 From the “Mandarin Lessons,” and recently from the arithmetic, he
received substantial pecuniary returns, though not at all sufficient to
entitle him to be regarded as wealthy. In his manner of living he
would have been untrue to his training and impulses if he had not
practiced frugality, economy, and simplicity. As the means came into
his possession he used them generously both for personal friends
and for the promotion of the cause to which he had consecrated his
life. Of his outlays for the school and college we shall presently need
to speak. The expenses of the Yangtse trip came out of his own
pocket. March 9, 1895, he wrote to one of the secretaries of the
Board:

The mission minutes spoke, if you remember, of my

intention to erect a building for a museum and public lecture
room, and present it to the Board. This I intend to do at once.
It will cost about twelve hundred dollars, possibly more. I may
say in the same connection also that my “Mandarin Lessons”
has fully paid all the cost of printing, and so forth, and I expect
during the next year to pay into the treasury of the Board one
thousand dollars, Mexican. This I do in view of the liberality of
the Board in giving me my time while editing and printing the
book. When the second edition is printed I expect to pay over
a larger amount. I need not say that I feel very much gratified
that the book has proved such a success: especially do I feel
that it has been, and is going to be, very widely useful in
assisting missionaries to acquire the Chinese language. My
scientific books are also paying for themselves, but as yet
have left no margin of profits.

May 20, 1905, he wrote to a secretary: “I may say, however, that in

view of the great importance of the school both to the Tengchow
station and as a feeder to the college at Wei Hsien, I have set apart
from the profit of my ‘Mandarin Lessons’ enough to support the
school for the present year.” December 13, 1906, he wrote to a
friend in the United States: “My brother is now holding a large
meeting of elders and leading men from all the stations in this field.
There are about three hundred of them. It is no small expense to
board and lodge so many for ten days. I am paying the bill.” In one of
his latest letters to me he mentions this ability pecuniarily to help as
affording him satisfaction.
 X
THE CARE OF THE NATIVE CHRISTIANS

“The need of the hour in China is not more new stations with expensive
buildings and wide itinerating. It is rather teaching and training what
we have, and giving it a proper development. Most of all we should
raise up and prepare pastors and preachers and teachers, who are
well grounded in the truth, so that the Chinese Church may have wise
and safe leaders.... There are already enough mission stations, or
centers, in the province, if they were properly worked. The need of the
hour is to consolidate and develop what we have, and by all means in
our power develop native agency, and teach and locate native
pastors,—men who are well grounded in the faith.”—letter to
secretary fox, of the American Bible Society, January 6, 1906.

Dr. Mateer believed that sooner than most missionaries

anticipated the Chinese Christians will join together and set up an
independent church. He meant by this not merely a union of the
ministers and churches of the various Presbyterian denominations at
work in the country, such as has already been effected, but an
organization that would include in its membership all the Protestant
Christians, and that would leave little or no place for the service of
foreign missionaries. He regarded this as inevitable; and for that
reason he considered it to be of prime importance that such an
effective preliminary work should promptly be done, that this coming
ecclesiastical independence might not be attended by unsoundness
as to creed or laxity in life. At the same time, in holding up the care
and the training of the native Christians as so important a part of the
work of the foreign missionary in China, in anticipation of what is
ahead, he was only for an additional reason urging what he had in all
his long career recognized as second to no other in importance. Of
course, at the beginning of the effort to give the gospel to a people it
is indispensable to do “the work of an evangelist”; that is, to seek by
the spoken word and by the printed book to acquaint them with
elementary Christian truth, and to endeavor to win them to Christ;
and we have already seen how diligent Dr. Mateer was in this
service, especially in his earlier missionary years. But he was just as
diligent in caring for the converts when gained; and in the school and
college it was the preparation of men for pastors and teachers and
evangelists that was constantly his chief aim.
The first body of native Christians with whose oversight he had
anything to do was that very small band that had been gathered into
the church at Tengchow. Mills was the senior missionary, and as
such he presided over that little flock until his death. In 1867 he was
installed as the pastor, and he continued in this office nearly twenty
years. During this long period Dr. Mateer at times supplied the pulpit
and cared for the church in Mills’s absence or illness, but for most of
the time it was only as a sort of adviser that he could render help in
that field. We have no reason to think specially unfavorably of
Chinese converts because some of those with whom he then had to
do at Tengchow, or elsewhere, proved themselves, to him, to be a
discouraging set of professing Christians. Were not a good many of
Paul’s converts very much of the same grade when he traveled
among the churches, and wrote his letters? Did it not take much
patience, and fidelity, and persistence on the part of Christ to make
anything worth while out of his select disciples? Yet these constituted
the membership of the primitive church from which even the
missionaries of our day have originated. At any rate some of the
earliest experiences of Dr. Mateer with the native Christians were of
a very depressing sort. In his Journal, under date of March 17, 1864,
he made this record:

Since coming to Tengchow there have been great

difficulties in the native church. Several of the members were
accused by common fame of various immoral practices,—one
of smoking opium, another of lying and conforming to
idolatrous practices, and another of breaking the Sabbath.
The second of these confessed his fault, and was publicly
reproved; the third also confessed, and on his profession of
penitence was restored to the confidence of the church. But
 though the first confessed to the use of the ashes of opium,
he gave no certain assurance of amendment; and he was
suspended, and so remains. These matters gave us all a
great deal of anxiety and sorrow of heart. It is sad thus to find
that even those who profess the name of Christ are so much
under the power of sin. It is one of the great discouragements
of the missionary work. Yet God is able to keep even such
weak ones as these unto eternal life.

Under date of September 15, 1866, he told of a worse case of

discipline:

We had a hearing with the accused, and gave him notice

that he would be tried, and of the charges and witnesses. We
wrote to Mr. Corbett at Chefoo, to get depositions for us. He
did so, and we met, and tried him. The evidence was
sufficient to convict him of lying, and of forging an account,
and of adultery; notwithstanding, he denied it all, endeavoring
to explain away such evidence as he was forced to admit. We
decided to excommunicate him, and it was done two weeks
ago.

It must not be supposed that there was a great deal of such

discouraging work; as a rule, the native Christians tried to live correct
lives; and the worst that could be said of most of them at those early
dates was that they were “babes” in Christ. But we cannot appreciate
what the missionary needs to do as to the professed converts unless
we look at this depressing phase. Besides, incidentally we are thus
shown one of the methods by which the native Christians were
trained in the conduct of their own churches. Each case is dealt with
just as is required by the regulations of the denomination with which
the church is associated. The same formalities and processes are
employed as if in the United States; the same fairness and fullness
of investigation, with witnesses and hearing of the accused; and the
same effort neither to fall below nor to exceed what justice and
charity combined demand for the good of the individual and of the
organization as a whole. As to this, in these particular cases no
exceptional credit can be claimed for Dr. Mateer; but we can be
perfectly sure that it commanded his hearty approbation. This was a
practical school also in which was called into exercise a quality of
which a young missionary, and especially a man of his type, seldom
has enough,—that of mingling a firm adherence to truth and
righteousness with a forbearing kindness that will not break a
bruised reed or quench the smoking flax. Gradually this became so
characteristic of him that the boys in his school and the Christians in
the churches were accustomed to come to him and unburden
themselves not only of sorrows, but of faults, with no expectation that
he would condone wrong or shield them from its just consequences,
but confident that he would feel for them, and help them if he could.
Nor was it to these classes alone that his heart and hands opened.
As they came to know him better, the professor in the imperial
university sought his advice and the coolie turned to him in his need;
and never in vain.
But there was a brighter side to the experience of those early
days. Several of the boys in the school were converted. What joy this
afforded, we who live in Christian lands cannot appreciate. The little
church at Tengchow also steadily moved forward in those early days
of its history. In 1869 it had risen to about fifty members, and the
attendance was such that a building solely for its services became
indispensable; and in due time an appropriation was made by the
Board of Missions, first for a lot, and soon after for a house of
worship. Pastor Mills was then absent, and by appointment of
presbytery Dr. Mateer acted as stated supply. As such, having first
bought the lot, he made an appeal to the Board for the new edifice,
saying:

We hold our services in the boys’ schoolroom, which has

been kept inconveniently large, for this very purpose. It is the
only room that will seat all, and it will not do it sometimes. The
desks have to be carried out every Sabbath; and all the
benches, chairs, and so forth, about the establishment carried
in, making a decidedly nondescript collection. Aside from the
 inconvenience, two serious drawbacks are felt. One is the
want of sacred associations about the place. All heathen are
wanting in reverence, and no small part of what they need is
to have this idea instilled into their minds. We greatly need in
this work a house especially devoted to the worship of God.
The other drawback is the disorganizing effect the Sabbath
and week-day services have on the school. The room being in
the midst of the premises, it is impossible to prevent a large
amount of lounging, gossiping, and so forth, in the boys’ room
before the service begins. The superintendent feels that it is a
very serious drawback to the school, as well as an injury to
the native Christians.

Any American who is familiar with students and their habits will
perceive that in this matter Chinese young men and boys are very
much like those of our own land.
In that appeal there is another paragraph that deserves
transcription here:

It has been said that the Christians in heathen lands ought

to build their own churches, but this is impossible in the early
stages of the work, especially at the center of operations,
where the foreigner preaches and teaches in person, and
where a large part of his hearers are often from a distance.
The church at this place gives character to the whole work in
the eyes of the people at large, and must of necessity differ in
many respects from churches in small places presided over
by native pastors. Concerning these last we have already
taken a decided stand, requiring the natives to help
themselves to a great extent.

Dr. Mateer was appointed by the presbytery to serve a second

year as stated supply of the Tengchow church; and had it not been
that he was called in 1870 to Shanghai to take charge of the mission
press, he no doubt would have given his personal supervision to the
erection of the new house of worship. It was built during his absence,
and when he came back he rejoiced in its completion. At the death of
Mills in 1895, Dr. Mateer was chosen pastor, and was installed as
such,—a position he was able to assume because he had found in
Mr. Hayes a substitute for himself in the presidency of the college.
He remained pastor until he went with the college to Wei Hsien. Dr.
Hayes had already for years worked quietly and efficiently in the
school, under the presidency of Dr. Mateer, and had shown himself
to be a man of exceptional ability and energy—a man after Dr.
Mateer’s own heart. After he assumed the presidency Dr. Mateer
was still to assist in the college, but he was so often absent or
otherwise engaged that both the college and the preaching were
largely in the hands of Dr. Hayes.
According to the “Form of Government” of the Presbyterian
Church in the United States of America, when a “call” is made out for
a pastor it must be certified to have been voted by a majority of the
people entitled to exercise this right; and it must fill the blank in the
following clause: “And that you may be free from worldly cares and
avocations, we hereby promise and oblige ourselves to pay to you
the sum of ... in regular quarterly (or half-yearly, or yearly) payments
during the time of your being and continuing the regular pastor of this
church.” In the settling of native pastors over the Chinese churches
scattered through the country, the filling of that blank, and the actual
subscription of the funds needed for this and other expenses of the
organization, usually require the presence of a missionary and of his
earnest stimulation and guidance. Sometimes the pledges are very
liberal, if estimated by ability of the members; and sometimes it is
with great difficulty that they are brought up to the measure of their
duty. The salaries, however, are almost incredibly small, and even
according to Chinese standards are scarcely sufficient for a
livelihood. We need to keep this state of things in mind in order to
appreciate the amount that was inserted in the blank in Dr. Mateer’s
call to the pastorate of the Tengchow church. In reporting the entire
procedure to the Board of Missions, he said: “The church in
Tengchow in calling me for their pastor promised a salary of cash
amounting to fifty dollars, which is to be used to employ an
evangelist whom I am to select and direct.” Of course, he continued
to receive his own pay as a missionary from the funds of the Board.
The fifty dollars was probably a creditable amount, as contributed by
the native members out of their narrow means; and as a salary for a
native evangelist it was at least a fair average.
When reporting this pastorate to the Board of Missions, Dr. Mateer
said, “This is work that I love to do, especially the preaching.” When
doing the work of an evangelist among the people at large,
sermonizing could have no place. Even formal addresses of any sort
were rarely practicable. The best that the missionary can do when
itinerating is to get attention by any legitimate means, and then to
talk, and hear and answer questions, and bear with all sorts of
irrelevancies and interruptions. But when a church is organized, a
sermon, consisting of a passage of Scripture and a discourse built
upon it, is just as much in place as it is in one of our home houses of
worship on the Sabbath. It was to the opportunity for that form of
service that he refers when he expressed his pleasure in the
pastorate. In this also he greatly excelled. Some who knew him most
intimately, and who appreciated fully his great worth and efficiency,
did not regard him as a very eloquent preacher in an English pulpit.
He commanded the attention of his audience by his strong, clear,
earnest presentation of the great religious truths which he believed
with all his soul. The personality and consecration of the man were a
tremendous force when he stood in a pulpit in his own land; what he
lacked was the ability which some speakers possess of carrying his
audience with him, almost irrespective of the thoughts to which they
give utterance. But in preaching to the Chinese he took on an
extraordinary effectiveness. There was in the man, in the movement
of his thought, in his mastery of the language, in the intense
earnestness of his delivery, in the substance of his sermons and
addresses, much that captivated the native Christians, and made
others bow before his power. Mr. Baller, who had heard him
frequently, says: “His sermons were logical, direct, a unit in thought
and enriched with a copious vocabulary and illustrations. His points
were usually put from the Chinese point of view, so that a foreign air
was conspicuously absent.” To this day some of his addresses are
recalled as triumphs of real eloquence of speech; perhaps the most
notable of these being an address which he delivered at the opening
of the English Baptist Institution at Tsinan fu, in 1907. It was an
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