At least I have the modesty to admit that lack of modesty is one

Host: The evening lingered like a slow exhale over the Parisian street — rain-slick cobblestones glimmering beneath gaslight, the air scented faintly of coffee and wet stone. Inside a quiet bistro, the world was painted in gold: candles flickered, shadows moved lazily along the walls, and the low murmur of a jazz record filled the air like a memory someone forgot to stop playing.

Jack and Jeeny sat by the window. His coat was draped carelessly over the back of the chair, a streak of rain glistening across his sleeve. Jeeny had her hair tied back, a single strand escaping to catch the candlelight as she stirred her drink — slow, rhythmic, like she was thinking in circles.

Host: They’d been talking for hours, but it was that comfortable kind of conversation — one that drifts like smoke, between laughter and confession. Then Jack, with his usual half-smile and hint of danger, dropped the quote that shifted the air.

Jack: “You know what Hector Berlioz said once? ‘At least I have the modesty to admit that lack of modesty is one of my failings.’”

Jeeny: She raised an eyebrow, amused. “So… humble bragging before humble bragging was invented.”

Jack: “Exactly. But at least he was honest. Arrogance, wrapped in honesty — that’s a kind of virtue in itself.”

Jeeny: “Virtue? You think admitting vanity makes it noble?”

Jack: “No, it makes it real. You can’t fix what you won’t face. The worst liars are the ones who pretend they’re humble. At least Berlioz had the guts to wear his flaws out loud.”

Host: The candlelight trembled slightly as someone opened the door. A brief gust of cold air swept in, then silence again. Jeeny looked at him — really looked — with that kind of quiet intensity that could cut through armor.

Jeeny: “You always defend arrogance, Jack. Why?”

Jack: “Because it’s honest. Modesty’s often just performance. A trick to make pride look palatable.”

Jeeny: “And you think arrogance is more authentic?”

Jack: “Sometimes. At least it doesn’t hide behind virtue. Look at the world — people who act ‘humble’ just to be liked, to be seen as good. That’s not modesty; that’s manipulation.”

Jeeny: “But humility isn’t about pretending. It’s about perspective — remembering you’re part of something bigger. Arrogance blinds you to that. It makes you believe the light shines because of you.”

Jack: “Or it gives you the courage to shine when everyone else is too scared to step out of the shadows.”

Host: Their eyes locked — light versus reflection, flame versus smoke. The tension wasn’t anger; it was recognition. Two souls testing the edges of what they believed to be truth.

Jeeny: “You sound like every genius who excused cruelty in the name of brilliance.”

Jack: “And you sound like every saint who let the world walk over them in the name of humility.”

Host: A slow smile ghosted across her lips. The jazz in the background shifted — a low trumpet, sultry and sad.

Jeeny: “You know, Berlioz was a genius, but he was unbearable. Critics said his ego filled the room before he did. He destroyed friendships over pride. That’s not courage, Jack. That’s loneliness dressed as confidence.”

Jack: “Maybe loneliness is the price of truth. Every artist who changes the world has to believe they’re right when everyone else says they’re wrong.”

Jeeny: “Believing in yourself isn’t arrogance. Believing only in yourself is.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his grey eyes thoughtful now, the edge in his voice softening just a little.

Jack: “So you think we should all bow, pretend to be small, to keep people comfortable?”

Jeeny: “No. I think we should remember that being good at something doesn’t make us gods. There’s a line between confidence and worship — and too many people build altars to themselves.”

Host: The rain outside picked up again, tapping softly against the window. It sounded almost like applause — faint, distant, ironic.

Jack: “Maybe Berlioz knew that line, though. Maybe his self-awareness was his humility. To say, ‘I know I’m vain, but I’ll admit it.’ That’s more modest than pretending not to be.”

Jeeny: “Admitting vanity doesn’t absolve it. It just intellectualizes it. Like when someone says, ‘I know I’m selfish,’ right before they hurt you again. Awareness without change isn’t honesty, Jack. It’s decoration.”

Jack: “That’s unfair.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s precise. Because honesty isn’t just saying what you are. It’s daring to become something better.”

Host: Jack looked away for a moment, eyes tracing the condensation on the glass. Outside, the city lights blurred — gold bleeding into grey, a watercolor of everything half-beautiful, half-broken.

Jack: “You ever think modesty’s overrated? The world doesn’t reward quiet souls. It worships those who shout. Maybe Berlioz understood that — that modesty’s a virtue only in theory.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s not overrated. It’s just misunderstood. Real modesty isn’t silence — it’s space. The kind that lets others breathe beside you. The kind that doesn’t need applause to feel alive.”

Host: The waiter passed by, refilling their glasses. Jack stared at the rising bubbles, their rhythm strangely like a heartbeat trying to remember its tempo.

Jack: “So what about you, Jeeny? You say all this — but do you ever feel proud? Do you ever think, ‘I was right, I was better, I did it alone’?”

Jeeny: “Of course. I’m human. I feel the pull of ego every day. But I try not to make it my god. Because pride isolates. It’s the loneliest religion there is.”

Jack: “Maybe. But it’s also the truest one. At least you can’t blame anyone else when it fails.”

Jeeny: “And you call that strength?”

Jack: “I call it honesty.”

Host: The flame between them trembled again, its glow reflecting in the wet window, making the street outside look like it was burning softly under rain.

Jeeny: “Honesty without humility becomes cruelty. Humility without honesty becomes hypocrisy. You can’t choose one and call it wisdom.”

Jack: “Then what’s the balance?”

Jeeny: “To be proud without forgetting the soil that grew you. To shine — but remember the dark you came from.”

Host: Silence. The jazz slowed to a tender piano melody. Jack’s face softened, the defiance in him bending into something quieter — almost sorrowful.

Jack: “Maybe Berlioz wasn’t just confessing pride. Maybe he was mocking himself — a man aware that ego would be his ruin, but too human to escape it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The tragedy of self-awareness — knowing your flaw, and loving it anyway.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s all any of us are — half modest, half mad.”

Jeeny: “And maybe the beauty is in the trying — the tension between the two.”

Host: The rain stopped. The air stilled. Outside, the street reflected the soft orange glow of the café lights — like a painting coming alive.

Jack raised his glass slightly. “To Berlioz, then — and to the art of admitting our flaws.”

Jeeny smiled. “And to the harder art — of forgiving them.”

Host: They clinked glasses softly. The sound was delicate, like a bell marking the end of a confession. The candle burned lower, the wax melting into quiet pools of gold.

Outside, the city shimmered — proud and imperfect, humble and magnificent, just like them.

Host: And as the night folded itself into silence, it seemed, for a fleeting moment, that modesty and pride — like candle and flame — could coexist without extinguishing each other.