man, the last born
of an exhausted race, who, while seemingly incapable of either thought or
action, was none the less very seductive with his high-born pride and
indolence. Far more a Roman than a patriot, Dario had never had the
faintest inclination to rally to the new order of things, being well
content to live apart and do nothing; and passionate though he was, he
indulged in no follies, being very practical and sensible at heart, as
are all his fellow-citizens, despite their apparent impetuosity. As soon
as his carriage, after crossing the Piazza di Venezia, entered the Corso,
he gave rein to his childish vanity, his desire to shine, his passion for
gay, happy life in the open under the lovely sky. All this, indeed, was
clearly expressed in the simple gesture which he made whilst exclaiming:
"The Corso!"

As on the previous day, Pierre was filled with astonishment. The long
narrow street again stretched before him as far as the white dazzling
Piazza del Popolo, the only difference being that the right-hand houses
were now steeped in sunshine, whilst those on the left were black with
shadow. What! was that the Corso then, that semi-obscure trench, close
pressed by high and heavy house-fronts, that mean roadway where three
vehicles could scarcely pass abreast, and which serried shops lined with
gaudy displays? There was neither space, nor far horizon, nor refreshing
greenery such as the fashionable drives of Paris could boast! Nothing but
jostling, crowding, and stifling on the little footways under the narrow
strip of sky. And although Dario named the pompous and historical
palaces, Bonaparte, Doria, Odescalchi, Sciarra, and Chigi; although he
pointed out the column of Marcus Aurelius on the Piazza Colonna, the most
lively square of the whole city with its everlasting throng of lounging,
gazing, chattering people; although, all the way to the Piazza del
Popolo, he never ceased calling attention to churches, houses, and
side-streets, notably the Via dei Condotti, at the far end of which the
Trinity de' Monti, all golden in the glory of the sinking sun, appeared
above that famous flight of steps, the triumphal Scala di Spagna--Pierre
still and ever retained the impression of disillusion which the narrow,
airless thoroughfare had conveyed to him: the "palaces" looked to him
like mournful hospitals or barracks, the Piazza Colonna suffered terribly
from a lack of trees, and the Trinity de' Monti alone took his fancy by