y 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 Hea