life, to command
us. An old man may retain the habit of winning victories, but only a
young man can acquire it!"

Alcor then gave place to an angel of the philosophic order, who mounted
the rostrum and spoke thus:

"War never was an exact science, a clearly defined art. The genius of
the race, or the brain of the individual, has ever modified it. Now how
are we to define the qualities necessary for a general in command in the
war of the future, where one must consider greater masses and a larger
number of movements than the intelligence of man can conceive? The
multiplication of technical means, by infinitely multiplying the
opportunities for mistake, paralyses the genius of those in command. At
a certain stage in the progress of military science, a stage which our
models, the Europeans, are about to reach, the cleverest leader and the
most ignorant become equalized by reason of their incapacity. Another
result of great modern armaments is, that the law of numbers tends to
rule with inflexible rigour. It is of course true that ten angels in
revolt are worth more than ten angels of Ialdabaoth; it is not at all
certain that a million rebellious angels are worth more than a million
of Ialdabaoth's 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