When about to commit a base deed, respect thyself, though there

Host:
The night was clear, still, and cold—moonlight silvering the cobblestones of an ancient courtyard where even shadows seemed to whisper restraint. The faint toll of a bell drifted from a distant cathedral, each chime like a pulse of conscience through the dark.

Inside an old philosopher’s study, lit by a single candle, two figures sat in quiet debate. The shelves were lined with worn tomes, their spines cracked, their titles half-faded by time. The air was heavy with wax, ink, and the lingering weight of questions older than the room itself.

Jack sat near the window, his posture taut, his gaze fixed on the small flame between them. Jeeny stood by the hearth, arms crossed, eyes bright with that moral fire that came so naturally to her. On the desk between them lay a small parchment, on which a single line was written in Latin—and beneath it, its translation:

“When about to commit a base deed, respect thyself, though there is no witness.” – Ausonius

Jeeny:
(reading the line softly)
“Respect thyself, though there is no witness.”
(pauses, letting it sink in)
It’s almost unbearable in its simplicity, isn’t it? The entire concept of integrity, compressed into one sentence.

Jack:
(smirks faintly, but there’s no mockery in it)
Or the loneliest command ever written.

Host:
The flame flickered, sending ripples of light across the room, catching on the curve of glass bottles and the spine of Plato’s Republic. The silence between them felt deliberate—an echo of the words they both wrestled with.

Jeeny:
(turning toward him)
You think integrity’s lonely?

Jack:
(leaning back, arms folded)
Of course it is. Integrity means doing the right thing when no one’s watching. But when no one’s watching, there’s no applause. No absolution. Just silence.

Jeeny:
(smiles faintly)
Silence isn’t punishment, Jack. It’s proof.

Jack:
Proof of what?

Jeeny:
That your morality doesn’t depend on witnesses. That you’re ruled by conscience, not consequence.

Host:
The wind outside rattled the shutters lightly, and a thin gust brushed the candle flame into a trembling halo. Jack’s reflection wavered in the windowpane—half-real, half-ghost, like a man uncertain of his own place between ethics and survival.

Jack:
You make it sound easy. But what if respecting yourself costs everything else? What if the right thing gets you nothing but loss?

Jeeny:
(quietly, but firm)
Then loss becomes proof of who you are.

Jack:
(low, bitter laugh)
That’s the kind of thing only the righteous say.

Jeeny:
No—it’s what the broken say when they still refuse to bend.

Host:
Her voice softened, but her eyes stayed fierce, like embers refusing to fade. Jack watched her, his jaw set, his hands clasped, as if trying to hold onto something fragile and invisible—his own reflection of worth.

Jack:
(after a pause)
You know what’s funny? People talk about conscience like it’s a comfort. But it’s a weight. A relentless judge that doesn’t let you sleep.

Jeeny:
That’s because it’s supposed to wake you.

Jack:
(meeting her gaze)
And if it never stops? If it keeps whispering that every choice you make is flawed?

Jeeny:
Then it means you’re still trying. People without conscience don’t argue with it.

Host:
The candle crackled, its wax pooling slowly like time made liquid. The shadows leaned closer, listening.

Jeeny:
(quietly, almost to herself)
“Respect thyself.” That’s such a beautiful phrase. It isn’t “obey thyself,” or “justify thyself.” It’s gentler. It’s compassion and discipline at once.

Jack:
Respect as restraint.

Jeeny:
Respect as remembrance.

Jack:
Of what?

Jeeny:
Of who you are when no one is around to remind you.

Host:
Her words lingered like incense. Jack turned toward the window, the moonlight cutting across his face—a line of silver through shadow. He looked like a man standing at the crossroads between what he could do and what he must not.

Jack:
Sometimes I think morality’s just an illusion. A set of mirrors we build to convince ourselves we’re better than chaos.

Jeeny:
(softly)
And yet, even chaos respects its own nature. Maybe morality isn’t about being better—it’s about not becoming what you fear.

Jack:
(looking down, murmuring)
So self-respect is the last line of defense.

Jeeny:
The only one that never leaves you.

Host:
The fire in the hearth flared for a moment, the warmth catching the edge of Jeeny’s face. The light softened, and the silence deepened again, as though the room itself held its breath.

Jeeny:
(after a pause)
It’s easy to respect yourself in front of others. The real test is what happens when it’s just you—and temptation.

Jack:
(lowly)
Temptation’s louder in silence.

Jeeny:
(nods)
That’s why Ausonius wrote this. To remind us that solitude isn’t permission—it’s exposure.

Jack:
(raising an eyebrow)
Exposure to what?

Jeeny:
Yourself.

Host:
A faint gust of wind found its way through the cracks of the old house, extinguishing the candle. The room fell into half-darkness, lit only by the moon’s pale reflection.

Jack:
You really believe people can be good without witness?

Jeeny:
(without hesitation)
Yes. Because that’s when goodness means something.

Jack:
(softly, thoughtful)
And if no one ever knows?

Jeeny:
Then it was pure.

Host:
Her words landed like a bell tone in still air—clear, unflinching. Jack looked at her, then down at his hands, then finally at the parchment again.

Jack:
You know, I think respect isn’t about pride. It’s about boundaries. About saying, “This far I will go, and no farther.”

Jeeny:
(smiling faintly)
That’s the essence of dignity. Choosing your own limits before the world does.

Host:
The moon shifted, its light spilling across the floorboards like a quiet benediction. The old books stood still, like witnesses to a confession that had ended not in guilt, but in clarity.

Jeeny:
(softly)
In the end, no one escapes their own witness.

Jack:
(nodding slowly)
Maybe that’s what he meant. That even in solitude, the soul keeps its own eyes open.

Host:
The wind calmed, the world outside settling into silence. Inside, two souls sat in that small circle of fading light, both humbled by the same truth—

that morality isn’t performance,
and character isn’t measured by applause.

When the candle’s gone,
and the audience fades,
what remains—the only true witness—
is the self that still refuses
to look away.

Host (quietly):
And in that refusal,
perhaps,
is the deepest kind of respect.