The Census in Moscow — A Closer Reading

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In Category - Historical Psychological Social Fiction

Authors: Tolstoy, Leo, graf, 1828-1910, Hapgood, Isabel Florence, 1850-1928 [Translator] Digital Source: Project Gutenberg Gutenberg Release Year: 2002 First Publication Year: Not confirmed

Key Word: Social problems; Moscow (Russia) -- Social conditions Target Reader: Readers of public-domain and historical texts

Book Edition: Project Gutenberg digital edition Book Language: en

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Words 7,326

Reading time 32 min

Text sections 1

The source record for The Census in Moscow — A Closer Reading measures this digital text at 7,326 words, 32 min estimated reading time, and 1 detected text section.

The text analysis averages about 25.6 words per sentence, while the detected sections provide another way to judge how the source is divided.

Project Gutenberg metadata also associates the work with “Social problems,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.

Source: Project Gutenberg record #3540

Tolstoy's essay on the 1882 Moscow census shifts from detached sociological reasoning to urgent moral appeal, using direct address and rhythmic repetition to demand that enumerators treat the poor as fellow humans, not data points.

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File: pg3540

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Transcribed from the 1887 Tomas Y. Crowell "What to do?" edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org

MOSCOW CENSUS--FROM "WHAT TO DO?"

ARTICLE ON THE CENSUS IN MOSCOW. [1882.]

The object of a census is scientific. A census is a sociological investigation. And the object of the science of sociology is the happiness of the people. This science and its methods differ sharply from all other sciences.

Its peculiarity lies in this, that sociological investigations are not conducted by learned men in their cabinets, observatories and laboratories, but by two thousand people from the community. A second peculiarity is this, that the investigations of other sciences are not conducted on living people, but here living people are the subjects. A third peculiarity is, that the aim of every other science is simply knowledge, while here it is the good of the people. One man may investigate a nebula, but for the investigation of Moscow, two thousand persons are necessary. The object of the study of nebulae is merely that we may know about nebulae; the object of the study of inhabitants is that sociological laws may be deduced, and that, on the foundation of these laws, a better life for the people may be established. It makes no difference to the nebula whether it is studied or not, and it has waited long, and is ready to wait a great while longer; but it is not a matter of indifference to the inhabitants of Moscow, especially to those unfortunates who constitute the most interesting subjects of the science of sociology.

The census-taker enters a night lodging-house; in the basement he finds a man dying of hunger, and he politely inquires his profession, his name, his native place, the character of his occupation, and after a little hesitation as to whether he is to be entered in the list as alive, he writes him in and goes his way.

And thus will the two thousand young men proceed. This is not as it should be.

Science does its work, and the community, summoned in the persons of these two thousand young men to aid science, must do its work. A statistician drawing his deductions from figures may feel indifferent towards people, but we census-takers, who see these people and who have no scientific prepossessions, cannot conduct ourselves towards them in an inhuman manner. Science fulfils its task, and its work is for its objects and in the distant future, both useful and necessary to us. For men of science, we can calmly say, that in 1882 there were so many beggars, so many prostitutes, and so many uncared-for children. Science may say this with composure and with pride, because it knows that the confirmation of this fact conduces to the elucidation of the laws of sociology, and that the elucidation of the laws of sociology leads to a better constitution of society. But what if we, the unscientific people, say: "You are perishing in vice, you are dying of hunger, you are pining away, and killing each other; so do not grieve about this; when you shall have all perished, and hundreds of thousands more like you, then, possibly, science may be able to arrange everything in an excellent manner." For men of science, the census has its interest; and for us also, it possesses an interest of a wholly different significance. The interest and significance of the census for the community lie in this, that it furnishes it with a mirror into which, willy nilly, the whole community, and each one of us, gaze.

The figures and deductions will be the mirror. It is possible to refrain from reading them, as it is possible to turn away from the looking-glass. It is possible to glance cursorily at both figures and mirror, and it is also possible to scrutinize them narrowly. To go about in connection with the census as thousands of people are now about to do, is to scrutinize one's self closely in the mirror.

What does this census, that is about to be made, mean for us people of Moscow, who are not men of science? It means two things. In the first place, this, that we may learn with certainty, that among us tens of thousands who live in ease, there dwell tens of thousands of people who lack bread, clothing and shelter; in the second place, this, that our brothers and sons will go and view this and will calmly set down according to the schedules, how many have died of hunger and cold.

And both these things are very bad.

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Tolstoy opens the essay by defining a census as a scientific, sociological investigation whose ultimate aim is the happiness of the people. He immediately distinguishes this science from others: it requires two thousand community members, studies living subjects, and pursues the good of the people rather than mere knowledge. The tone is measured, almost clinical, as he contrasts the study of nebulae with the study of inhabitants. But a shift occurs when he describes the census-taker entering a night lodging-house, finding a man dying of hunger, and politely inquiring his profession. The polite inquiry becomes a symbol of detachment, and Tolstoy’s voice grows urgent.

From Scientific Detachment to Moral Indictment

The essay’s opening paragraphs adopt the language of scientific method: “The object of a census is scientific.” Tolstoy lists three peculiarities of sociological investigation, each building a case for objectivity. Yet he immediately undercuts this stance by asking what happens when the census-taker confronts a dying man. The polite question about profession becomes absurd. Tolstoy’s syntax mirrors this tension: long, reasoned sentences give way to shorter, more insistent ones. He writes that a statistician “may feel indifferent towards people,” but the census-taker who sees the poor “cannot conduct themselves towards them in an inhuman manner.” The shift is not just thematic but structural—the essay moves from exposition to direct address, from “we” as scientists to “we” as moral agents.

The Rhythm of Repetition and the Wave of Good

Tolstoy employs repetition to build momentum. He repeats “Why not hope” and “this will be a great deal” to push the reader from modest assistance to radical transformation. The phrase “an endless wave” appears as a metaphor for the spread of good feeling among enumerators and the poor. The prose becomes incantatory: “Let those of the two thousand enumerators… come to understand… then let assistance be rendered… then let those laborers… be despatched… let the abandoned orphans receive supervision.” Each clause adds a layer of obligation. The rhythm accelerates until Tolstoy asks, “Why not hope that every thing will be accomplished?” The crescendo mirrors his argument that small acts can lead to a complete reordering of society.

Direct Address and the Reader as Enumerator

Throughout the essay, Tolstoy shifts between first-person plural and second-person address, implicating the reader in the census work. He writes, “we census-takers, who see these people,” and later asks, “What if we, the unscientific people, say…” The effect is to collapse the distance between writer and reader, making the reader a participant in the moral failure or success of the census. The most striking moment comes when he declares that it is “contrary to our reason and our heart” to accept poverty alongside wealth. He uses the word “our” to create a shared conscience. The essay ends with a biological metaphor: society as a diseased organism where healthy cells must crowd out the dead. The reader is called to be a living cell.

Tolstoy’s essay is best read as a performance of conscience. The shifts in voice—from scientific to prophetic, from calm to urgent—are not inconsistencies but deliberate rhetorical moves. Pay attention to how he uses the census as a stage for a larger argument about complicity. The excerpts leave the ending incomplete, but the trajectory is clear: the census is not about counting but about seeing. Read slowly, noting where the sentences lengthen or shorten, and where “we” becomes “you.”

The rain kept up its steady drumming on the window while I finished Tolstoy’s plea, his voice still urgent in the quiet room. The way he saw the poor, not as figures but as flesh and blood, stayed with me. It nudged me sideways, almost by accident, toward a very different era’s own stubborn arguments: Personal Recollections Abridged, Chiefly in Parts Pertaining to Political and Other Controversies Prevalent at the Time in Great Britain — Story, Setting & Ideas. Both books, in their own way, are about the gap between a principle and a person.