Roundabout to Moscow: An Epicurean Journey

In Short

Presented as an "epicurean journey," the book follows an American couple as they meander through Italy, Switzerland, and Scandinavia before culminating in a detailed exploration of Russia. Written with a blend of lighthearted observation and earnest political commentary, it challenges the anti-Russian sentiment pervasive in English literature of the period. By prioritizing personal experience over received wisdom, the narrative provides a unique window into the landscapes, customs, and social undercurrents of Europe, remaining a lasting document of how a nineteenth-century American sought to reconcile the "Old World" with democratic ideals.

The Story

The journey begins with a conscious rejection of European—specifically English—prejudice. The narrator and his wife, an American couple, start their travels in Italy, where they navigate the mundane frustrations of tourism: the stifling heat of the Villa Borghese, the persistent patois of local coachmen, and the surreal experience of witnessing the Colosseum illuminated by electric light. Their trip is marked by a series of small, human moments, such as the accidental rudeness of failing to recognize the King of Italy while distracted by the dust, or the sensory awe of the Alpine meadows in Switzerland, which are described as a "carpet so deftly woven" by nature.

As they venture northward into Scandinavia and eventually toward the Russian frontier, the narrative tone shifts from observational travelogue to a more pointed defense of the Russian people. The narrator is determined to dispel the "heavy pack of fine old English prejudices" that characterizes the Russian as a barbaric "Cossack." This mission is framed by a chance meeting on a train with the Russian Ambassador, Count Paul Schouvaloff, whose kindness and intelligence further prepossess the couple toward the country they are about to enter.

Upon arriving in St. Petersburg and Moscow, the author systematically dismantles the tropes of Russian life, from the supposed ubiquity of secret police to the terror of the "Judas-holes" he once feared would be watching him from his hotel ceiling. Instead of a land of mystery and oppression, he finds a society with deep, local traditions of self-governance through the Tir, or commune, and a population that, while largely indifferent to abstract calls for constitutional change, is capable of evolving toward a more liberal future.

The journey concludes with a reflection on the potential for Russia’s future. The author considers the Tsar not as an unreachable autocrat, but as a man burdened by the weight of responsibility and the constant threat of Nihilist assassins. He argues that the seeds of democracy are already present in the Russian village system and that a transition toward constitutionalism is not only possible but perhaps inevitable, provided it is allowed to grow from within rather than being forced by external pressures. By the time the travelers return, the reader is left with a vision of Russia that is neither the "Cossack" nightmare of Napoleon’s prophecy nor a stagnant empire, but a nation in the midst of a slow, significant transformation.

How It Unfolds

Setting the stage The narrator establishes a defiant stance against the anti-Russian bias inherent in British travel writing, urging the American reader to approach the frontier with an open mind. He establishes his credentials as a sympathetic observer, grounded in the historical friendship between the United States and the Russian Empire.

The Mediterranean excursion The narrative wanders through the ruins and natural wonders of Italy, documenting the physical toll of climbing Vesuvius and the optical illusions created by the leaning towers of Bologna. These chapters focus on the sensory details of the journey, emphasizing the beauty of the landscape and the common absurdities of travel.

Alpine transitions The couple traverses the high pastures of the Rhône valley, lingering on the exquisite variety of mountain flora. This section serves as a lyrical pause before the more serious engagement with the political and social realities of the North.

Entering the Russian interior Upon crossing into the Russian Empire, the narrator confronts his own anxieties regarding surveillance and the police state. Through humor and direct experience, he exposes the "mythical police espionage" as largely a fabrication of sensationalist travelers, replacing fear with practical curiosity.

The path to the future The journey concludes with an analysis of the Russian political structure, comparing it to American democratic institutions. The narrator synthesizes his experiences to argue that the country’s inherent communal systems provide a foundation for future, peaceful reform.

The People

The narrator positions himself as the quintessential "fair-minded" American: eager, slightly skeptical of authority, and fiercely protective of his own empirical observations. He wants to see things for himself, whether it is the interior of a suspected spy-hole or the true character of a Russian merchant. His wife, "The Sympathetic Comrade," remains a quiet, supportive presence throughout, representing the shared nature of their discovery.

"Oldpaint" and "Cockspur," figures encountered early in the gambling halls, serve as cautionary tales of human folly, representing the chaotic and desperate side of European leisure. In contrast, Count Paul Schouvaloff represents the ideal face of the Russian state—cultivated, welcoming, and deeply interested in American friendship.

The most compelling figures, however, are the symbolic ones: the Grand-Duke Alexis, who captures the affection of the American public through his charm; and the anonymous, "broad-faced" Russian peasants in the marketplace, who represent the humanity that the author insists his readers recognize. Finally, the Tsar appears not as a caricature of power, but as a tragic, overburdened figure. Each individual they encounter helps the narrator recalibrate his understanding of Russia, moving from the abstractions of political propaganda toward a nuanced, humanized appreciation of the people themselves.

In Its Own Voice

The best preparative for crossing the Russian frontier is to throw out of the carriage-window every English volume with which the tourist has beguiled the way in the vain hope of forming correct impressions of the country ahead.

The author begins his Russian chapters by warning the reader against the pervasive, biased narratives found in British accounts of the empire.

“Perhaps you would like to look through the glass down there. That will show you everything on the Murren plain enough.”

A young woman in the Swiss mountains offers the narrator's companion a telescope, illustrating the unexpected connections that bloom during their travels.

The blind hate which now seeks the life of one man only would then lose its concentration.

The narrator discusses the potential impact of constitutional reform on the activities of Nihilists in Russia.

What It's Really About

The book is a sustained argument against the distorting power of national prejudice. It asks whether a traveler can ever truly see a place as it is, or if they are permanently blinded by the literary and cultural baggage they carry. By examining the disparity between the "Cossack" stereotypes pushed by the British press and the reality of the friendly, communal, and developing society he encounters, the author challenges his readers to practice a more independent, empirical form of observation. It is a work about the necessity of shedding one's own national "pack" in order to engage with the world on its own terms, ultimately suggesting that friendship between nations is built on such individual, authentic experiences rather than geopolitical suspicion.

Why Read It Today

Modern readers will find in these pages a refreshing, if occasionally old-fashioned, commitment to the truth of one's own senses. The book feels like a conversation with a well-traveled, opinionated, and warm-hearted acquaintance who is determined to show you the world—or at least his version of it—without the interference of the establishment press. It is a leisurely, often meandering read that captures the rhythm of nineteenth-century travel, where a carriage ride or a train journey was an opportunity for deep reflection rather than a mere means to an end.

The difficulties are apparent: the author’s tendency to digress into long, sometimes tedious descriptions of architecture or flowers may test the patience of those accustomed to tighter, modern prose. His period attitudes, particularly his reliance on "national character" to explain differences between peoples, reflect the limitations of his era. However, for those interested in the history of travel writing, the book is an invaluable record of a specific American perspective—one that is optimistic, somewhat naive, and deeply invested in the promise of international friendship. It stays with you as a reminder of how much of our "knowledge" about other nations is actually just a collection of inherited stories, and how rewarding it can be to travel with the intent of replacing those stories with personal, human connections.