They are not artistic: they are only lascivious.
They are not prosperous: they are only rich.
They are not loyal, they are only servile; not dutiful, only sheepish; not public spirited, only patriotic; not courageous, only quarrelsome; not determined, only obstinate; not masterful, only domineering; not self-controlled, only obtuse; not self-respecting, only vain; not kind, only sentimental; not social, only gregarious; not considerate, only polite; not intelligent, only opinionated; not progressive, only factious; not imaginative, only superstitious; not just, only vindictive; not generous, only propitiatory; not disciplined, only cowed; and not truthful at all—liars every one of them, to the very backbone of their souls.
THE STATUE.
Your flow of words is simply amazing, Juan.
How I wish I could have talked like that to my soldiers.
THE DEVIL.
It is mere talk, though.
It has all been said before; but what change has it ever made?
What notice has the world ever taken of it?
DON JUAN.
Yes, it is mere talk.
But why is it mere talk?
Because, my friend, beauty, purity, respectability, religion, morality, art, patriotism, bravery and the rest are nothing but words which I or anyone else can turn inside out like a glove.
Were they realities, you would have to plead guilty to my indictment; but fortunately for your self-respect, my diabolical friend, they are not realities.
As you say, they are mere words, useful for duping barbarians into adopting civilization, or the civilized poor into submitting to be robbed and enslaved.
That is the family secret of the governing caste; and if we who are of that caste aimed at more Life for the world instead of at more power and luxury for our miserable selves, that secret would make us great.
Now, since I, being a nobleman, am in the secret too, think how tedious to me must be your unending cant about all these moralistic figments, and how squalidly disastrous your sacrifice of your lives to them!
If you even believed in your moral game enough to play it fairly, it would be interesting to watch; but you don't: you cheat at every trick; and if your opponent outcheats you, you upset the table and try to murder him.
THE DEVIL.
On earth there may be some truth in this, because the people are uneducated and cannot appreciate my religion of love and beauty; but here—
DON JUAN.
Oh yes: I know.
Here there is nothing but love and beauty.
Ugh! it is like sitting for all eternity at the first act of a fashionable play, before the complications begin.
Never in my worst moments of superstitious terror on earth did I dream that Hell was so horrible.
I live, like a hairdresser, in the continual contemplation of beauty, toying with silken tresses.
I breathe an atmosphere of sweetness, like a confectioner's shopboy.
Commander: are there any beautiful women in Heaven?
THE STATUE.
None.
Absolutely none.
All dowdies.
Not two pennorth of jewellery among a dozen of them.
They might be men of fifty.
DON JUAN.
I am impatient to get there.
Is the word beauty ever mentioned; and are there any artistic people?
THE STATUE.
I give you my word they won't admire a fine statue even when it walks past them.
DON JUAN.
I go.
THE DEVIL.
Don Juan: shall I be frank with you?
DON JUAN.
Were you not so before?
THE DEVIL.
As far as I went, yes.
But I will now go further, and confess to you that men get tired of everything, of heaven no less than of hell; and that all history is nothing but a record of the oscillations of the world between these two extremes.
An epoch is but a swing of the pendulum; and each generation thinks the world is progressing because it is always moving. But when you are as old as I am; when you have a thousand times wearied of heaven, like myself and the Commander, and a thousand times wearied of hell, as you are wearied now, you will no longer imagine that every swing from heaven to hell is an emancipation, every swing from hell to heaven an evolution.