Music has charms to sooth a savage breast, to soften rocks, or

Host:
The evening hung heavy with mist and memory, its air trembling faintly with the hush before a storm. A small, forgotten music hall stood at the edge of the city, its once-golden façade worn pale by time. Inside, the stage was empty save for a single violin, resting like a relic on a chair. The lights flickered, unsure whether to stay or fade, and the faint scent of dust mixed with the ghost of perfume from concerts long past.

Jack sat near the footlights, his tall frame hunched forward, elbows on his knees, grey eyes distant. Beside him, Jeeny stood by the piano, her slender hand tracing its wooden edge, her brown eyes glowing with quiet reflection. The silence between them was thick — not hostile, but dense with thought, as though both were waiting for the same truth to take shape.

Etched on the cracked mirror backstage were the words that had drawn them here:

“Music has charms to soothe a savage breast, to soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.” — William Congreve

Jack:
(reading slowly, almost mocking)
“To soothe a savage breast.” Sounds poetic enough — but tell me, Jeeny, you really believe music can tame what’s primal in us?

Jeeny:
(turning toward him)
I don’t just believe it — I’ve felt it. Music doesn’t tame the beast, Jack. It reminds it that it’s still human.

Jack:
(smiling faintly)
That’s the kind of romantic nonsense people say when they need comfort. Music doesn’t heal; it distracts. It’s anesthesia, not medicine.

Jeeny:
And what’s wrong with that? Even anesthesia saves lives.

Jack:
For a while. But the pain always wakes up again.

Host:
The light above them flickered, throwing shadows across the faded walls. Outside, a distant rumble of thunder pressed closer, low and deliberate — like the beginning of a symphony written by the storm itself.

Jeeny:
You think sound is powerless, but it’s the oldest form of language we have. Before words, there was rhythm — the heartbeat, the wind, the rain. Music speaks to what came before thought.

Jack:
That’s the problem. It bypasses thought. It manipulates emotion. A clever melody can make you weep without reason — that’s not healing, that’s trickery.

Jeeny:
No, that’s truth. Not everything real needs a reason.

Jack:
Truth is logic. Emotion lies.

Jeeny:
(snarling softly)
Then maybe your truth has never had to bleed, Jack.

Host:
The violin string snapped suddenly — a thin, sharp sound cutting through the air. Both turned toward it. The echo lingered, thin as breath, before dissolving into silence.

Jack:
(pointing toward the instrument)
See? That’s music too — tension breaking under pressure. Nothing romantic about it.

Jeeny:
Or maybe it’s the most romantic thing of all. The string breaks, but the vibration lives on — like a life that refuses to vanish.

Jack:
(skeptical)
You can turn any tragedy into poetry, can’t you?

Jeeny:
Only because tragedy already is poetry. We just forget how to listen.

Jack:
And music helps you remember?

Jeeny:
Always.

Host:
The rain began to fall outside — soft at first, then steadier, a thousand small notes against the glass. The air grew heavier, more intimate. Jeeny sat on the piano bench, her fingers finding a melody — slow, delicate, unsure. The notes drifted through the hall, mingling with the rain until it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.

Jack:
(quietly, as she plays)
You know… my mother used to hum when she cooked. Same tune every night. After she died, I couldn’t stand to hear it. It wasn’t soothing. It was cruel.

Jeeny:
(softly)
That’s not cruelty, Jack. That’s memory demanding to be felt.

Jack:
And what good does that do? She’s still gone.

Jeeny:
But for a moment — in the sound — she’s not.

Host:
Her hands trembled slightly on the keys, but she didn’t stop playing. The melody was simple, almost fragile, like something remembered from childhood. Jack’s eyes softened, caught between defiance and surrender.

Jack:
You make music sound like a religion.

Jeeny:
Maybe it is. Only this god doesn’t ask for worship — just listening.

Jack:
(leaning back)
And what happens when the song ends? When the silence comes back?

Jeeny:
That’s when the prayer begins.

Jack:
You really think a few notes can reach that deep?

Jeeny:
Yes. Because sound is the shape of emotion — and emotion is what moves the world.

Host:
Lightning flared through the high windows, white and pure, illuminating the dust particles swirling like forgotten dreams.

Jack:
(softly)
You know what I hear when I listen to music? Control. Patterns. Math dressed up in emotion. Even chaos has time signatures.

Jeeny:
That’s the skeleton. The spirit is in the imperfection — in the pauses, the breaths, the human hands trembling on the strings.

Jack:
And you think that imperfection soothes the savage?

Jeeny:
It doesn’t soothe it. It understands it. That’s the difference.

Jack:
So you think the beast inside us just needs to be heard?

Jeeny:
Exactly. Every savage thing softens when it’s finally understood.

Jack:
That’s a beautiful idea — and maybe the most naïve one I’ve ever heard.

Jeeny:
(smiling faintly)
Maybe. But tell me, Jack — when was the last time cynicism made a man kinder?

Jack:
When it kept him from believing in lies.

Jeeny:
And when it kept him from living?

Host:
The thunder rolled again, louder now. The room seemed to pulse with it, every surface vibrating faintly. Jeeny stopped playing, letting the storm finish the music. The sound wrapped around them — primal, unrestrained, magnificent.

Jack:
You hear that? That’s the only true orchestra. The world playing itself — no composer, no sentiment, just raw power.

Jeeny:
And yet even that storm has rhythm. Even chaos sings when you’re quiet enough to listen.

Jack:
So what are you saying — that music is nature’s apology for cruelty?

Jeeny:
No. It’s its confession.

Host:
The rain softened again, the storm moving farther out to sea. The hall filled with that peculiar silence that comes after intensity — fragile, sacred.

Jeeny:
Music doesn’t erase pain, Jack. It gives it shape. It makes it bearable.

Jack:
And maybe that’s what terrifies me most — that we’ve learned to decorate suffering instead of destroying it.

Jeeny:
But what if destruction isn’t the point? What if creation is the only real mercy we have left?

Host:
A single ray of moonlight slipped through the clouds, striking the broken violin on the chair. It shimmered faintly, as though remembering the sound it once carried.

Jack stood, walked to it, and picked it up gently. He turned it in his hands — careful, reverent.

Jack:
Maybe you’re right. Maybe we’re all just instruments — damaged, but still resonant.

Jeeny:
And every song we play is just a way of saying, “I’m still here.”

Jack:
(quietly)
Even when the music’s gone.

Jeeny:
Especially then.

Host:
They stood together in the hollow quiet, surrounded by echoes of melodies that no one would ever play again — yet somehow still lingered, alive in the air.

Perhaps that was what Congreve had meant:
That music doesn’t tame the beast; it speaks its language.
That it doesn’t soften the rock, but teaches it how to listen.

And maybe — just maybe — what bends is not the oak, but the heart.

Fade out.