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angels. Great numbers, in war as elsewhere, annihilate intelligence and individual superiority in favour of a sort of exceedingly rudimentary collective soul.”
A buzz of conversation drowned the voice of the philosophic angel, and he concluded his speech in an atmosphere of general indifference.
The tribune then resounded with calls to arms and promises of victory, The sword was held up to praise, the sword which defends the right. The triumph of the angels in revolt was celebrated twenty times beforehand, to the plaudits of a delirious crowd.
Cries of “War!” rose to the silent heavens; “Give us war!”
In the midst of these transports Prince Istar hoisted himself on to the platform, and the floor creaked under his weight.
“Comrades,” said he, “you wish for victory, and it is a very natural desire, but you must be mouldy with literature and poetry if you expect to obtain it from war. The idea of making war can nowadays only enter the brain of a sottish bourgeois or a belated romantic. What is war? A burlesque masquerade in the midst of which fatuous patriots sing their stupid dithyrambs. Had Napoleon possessed a practical mind he would not have made war; but he was a dreamer, intoxicated with Ossian. You cry, ‘Give us war!’ You are
