To say nothing, especially when speaking, is half the art of

Host: The embassy garden lay beneath a silver moon, its air trembling with the soft hum of distant traffic and the low murmur of voices drifting from the ballroom inside. The fountain in the center whispered its endless secret, while the light breeze carried the scent of roses and champagne. Jack stood near the edge, his grey eyes reflecting the shimmering water, a glass of scotch barely touched in his hand. Jeeny approached, her footsteps almost silent on the marble path, her black hair catching threads of moonlight as if woven from night itself.

Jeeny: “You’ve been quiet all evening, Jack. The whole room is full of politicians, and yet you, the most cynical of them all, say nothing.”

Jack: “To say nothing, Jeeny, is sometimes the only truthful statement left. Will Durant had it right — ‘To say nothing, especially when speaking, is half the art of diplomacy.’ It’s the art of saying everything without meaning anything.”

Host: The wind shifted, rustling the flags above them. Inside, crystal laughter and music swelled, painting the illusion of order and grace.

Jeeny: “You make it sound like deceit is a virtue. Diplomacy isn’t about saying nothing — it’s about saying what can heal, not what can harm. Sometimes silence is complicity.”

Jack: “And sometimes speaking is suicide. Do you really believe these men and women in there are here to heal anything? They’re here to negotiate, to maneuver, to survive. Words are weapons, Jeeny, and the best diplomats know how to disarm them before they’re fired.”

Jeeny: “But what of honesty, Jack? What of humanity? When a leader hides behind elegant words to avoid truth, the world bleeds. Think of Chamberlain in 1938 — his ‘peace for our time’ was a lie that bought war, not peace.”

Jack: “And yet, Churchill’s bluntness nearly isolated him before the war even began. Truth is costly, Jeeny. Sometimes nations can’t afford it.”

Host: The moonlight fell across their faces — his, hard and shadowed; hers, tender but defiant. The fountain’s song grew louder, like a heartbeat echoing between them.

Jeeny: “You call it cost; I call it cowardice. If we all speak half-truths, the world becomes half-alive.”

Jack: “Idealism suits you, Jeeny. But the world isn’t a poem. It’s a game — and the rules are written by those who master silence.”

Jeeny: “Then it’s a game I refuse to play.”

Jack: “Refusal doesn’t change the board. The only thing worse than a liar in diplomacy is a truth-teller with no strategy.”

Host: A pause — heavy, electric. The sound of glass clinking from inside the ballroom seemed suddenly distant, like memories of another world. The fountain’s reflection shimmered across Jack’s jawline, carving lines of fatigue that spoke of years spent in shadows.

Jeeny: “Then tell me this, Jack — do you ever believe in anything you say?”

Jack: “Belief is dangerous in diplomacy. It makes you predictable.”

Jeeny: “Or human.”

Jack: “Humanity is a liability when the stakes are power.”

Jeeny: “Power without humanity is empty.”

Host: The wind picked up, swaying the lamps, casting them in a dance of light and dark. Jeeny’s eyes glimmered — not from tears, but from conviction burning quietly beneath her calm.

Jeeny: “You hide behind cynicism like others hide behind prayer. But I’ve seen how you look at the world, Jack. You still care — even if you call it foolish.”

Jack: “Caring is one thing. Acting on it is another. The diplomat who speaks with his heart becomes a martyr, not a messenger.”

Jeeny: “And yet, it’s the martyrs we remember — not the messengers.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. The scotch glass in his hand trembled, catching the moonlight before he set it down beside the stone bench.

Jack: “You think I don’t know that? I’ve seen what truth does when it’s unleashed. I was in Sarajevo, Jeeny. I saw what one word — one declaration — can ignite. Sometimes, silence is the only mercy left.”

Jeeny: “And sometimes it’s the only betrayal.”

Host: A gust of wind swept through the garden, scattering petals across the fountain’s surface. For a moment, neither spoke — the world itself seemed to hold its breath.

Jack: “You speak of honesty as if it’s a cure, but truth can be toxic. Look at the Cold War, Jeeny. Every word was a potential trigger. Diplomacy wasn’t about honesty; it was about survival.”

Jeeny: “Survival without integrity isn’t peace, Jack. It’s just a quieter form of violence.”

Jack: “You really believe truth saves lives?”

Jeeny: “Yes — not immediately, but inevitably. Lies delay pain; truth transforms it.”

Host: The clouds parted, and a ray of moonlight fell upon Jeeny’s face. Her expression was gentle, but her eyes were unyielding, as though carved from the same light that illuminated the world’s hidden corners.

Jack: “You’d make a terrible diplomat.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But I’d make a decent human being.”

Host: Jack laughed, low and tired, the sound of a man who longs to believe but no longer can. The fountain glistened behind him, each droplet catching the light like a truth that refuses to stay hidden.

Jack: “You think honesty can coexist with diplomacy. But every honest statement has an enemy. Every truth creates division.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the goal isn’t to avoid division, but to guide it — like a river that carves the valley it runs through.”

Jack: “You’re poetic, Jeeny. But the river also destroys everything in its path.”

Jeeny: “And yet, without it, nothing grows.”

Host: Silence descended again — not the silence of absence, but of realization. The music from inside had faded; only the crickets and fountain remained, two simple witnesses to their quiet collision.

Jack: “You win this round.”

Jeeny: “It’s not about winning. It’s about remembering why we speak at all.”

Jack: “And why we sometimes don’t.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Silence has its grace — but only if it’s chosen out of wisdom, not fear.”

Host: The moon hung higher now, silver and immense, casting long shadows across the garden. Jack reached for his glass, but hesitated, his hand hovering in the air, as if caught between habit and awakening.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the other half of the art — knowing when silence is courage, and when it’s surrender.”

Jeeny: “Then tonight, Jack, maybe you’ve finally learned to speak — even without words.”

Host: She smiled, faintly, her eyes softened, and he looked at her — really looked — as though for the first time he saw not an idealist, but a mirror. The fountain’s water splashed softly between them, each drop a syllable in the unspoken truth they both finally understood.

And as the night wind passed, carrying away the echo of their debate, the moonlight rested upon their faces — two souls, one silent, one speaking, both finally listening.