What's More Important

Once upon a time, two friends argued about what happiness depends on.

“There’s nothing to think about!” exclaimed one. “Money brings happiness. You know how I became a poet. No one wanted to publish my poems. But then my aunt died and left me an inheritance, so I published them myself. Since then, publishers have been lining up. If it weren’t for my aunt’s money, no one would even know I’m a poet.”

“Nonsense,” interrupted the second. “Fate decides everything. I’m now considered the best singer in Italy. But not long ago, no one wanted to listen to me. I used to sing only to the fish by the sea. It was fate that Count Luigi happened to be rowing by at that moment. He heard me and invited me to sing at a ball in honor of his bride. That’s how it all started. What does money have to do with it? Fate, my friend, fate!”

The poet and the singer argued and argued but couldn’t come to an agreement, so they went for a walk.

They left the house and wandered aimlessly. On the outskirts of the city, they saw a dilapidated hut.

On the doorstep of the hut sat a young man in rags, playing a guitar.

“Listen, friend, you seem to be living quite merrily!” the poet called out to the young man.

“What merriment?” he replied. “I haven’t eaten in two days.”

“Then why are you playing the guitar?” asked the singer.

“Well, you see, the guitar is all my father left me as an inheritance.”

The friends exchanged glances because both suddenly thought, “This might be just what we need! Here we’ll find out what’s more important.”

Each took fifty gold coins from their pockets and gave them to the guitarist.

“A whole hundred scudi!” exclaimed the young man. “Thank you, kind sirs.”

“Save your thanks. In exactly one year, we’ll come back to see if this money helped you,” said the friends and went on their way.

As soon as they disappeared around the bend, Alcide—that was the young man’s name—said to himself:

“First, I’ll buy as many sausages as I can fit in my stomach. Then I’ll think about what to do with this unexpected fortune.”

He tucked the money into the lining of his beret and headed to the shop.

Before Alcide had taken ten steps, something unheard of happened—a large, shaggy crow flew down from an olive tree, grabbed his beret with its claws, and soared into the sky with it.

“Thief! Give me back my money!” shouted poor Alcide.

But the crow only flapped its wings faster and soon disappeared from sight.

A year passed. The poet and the singer returned to Alcide’s hut. They didn’t even need to knock, as Alcide, just like the first time, was sitting on the doorstep playing his guitar.

“What,” exclaimed the friends, “you’re still strumming that guitar?”

“What else can I do,” Alcide replied gloomily, “if a shaggy crow took my happiness along with my old beret.”

And he told them the short but sad story.

“Well,” the singer turned to the poet, “didn’t I tell you that happiness and misfortune are sent by fate? Maybe some crow wanted to sleep in its nest not on bare twigs but on soft fabric. But explain to me why it needed Alcide’s beret at the very moment he put the money in it.”

“Nonsense!” interrupted the poet. “If the crow hadn’t stolen the money, Alcide would be living happily. No, my friend, money is everything.”

With these words, the poet reached into his pocket, pulled out another hundred scudi, and handed them to Alcide.

Alcide began to thank them profusely, but they waved him off, promised to return in exactly one year, and left.

This time, Alcide decided to be smarter. Heading to the shop for sausages—remembering that a year ago he never got to enjoy them—he tucked one coin into his cheek and hid the other ninety-nine carefully. Where, you ask? In an old shoe lying in the corner.

“Now no crow will get to them,” he said, very pleased with his cunning. “And no thief would bother with such old junk.”

Meanwhile, while Alcide was at the shop, this happened: a neighbor’s cat wandered into the hut. Its owners only fed it when they themselves were full, which was never. The cat searched the entire room but, of course, found nothing edible. Suddenly, a mouse darted out of its hole. The cat chased it. The mouse scurried around and slipped into the old shoe—the very one where Alcide had hidden the money. The cat quickly overturned the shoe, the coins scattered across the floor, and the mouse escaped into its hole. Then the cat began playing with the coins. It batted them around until it had rolled every last one into the same hole where the mouse had hidden.

When Alcide returned from the shop, he found that he was no richer than he had been the day before—the money was gone! At least he had managed to buy the sausages.

So it was no surprise that when the singer and his friend returned a year later, they found Alcide on the doorstep of the old hut, doing the same old thing.

“Well,” exclaimed the poet, “this is too much! Are you going to tell us that mice stole the second hundred scudi?”

“Alas, my good sirs,” sighed Alcide, “I won’t try to convince you of anything because I don’t know where the money went.”

“Now you’re finally convinced,” said the singer to the poet, “that fate decides everything, not money.”

“On the contrary,” replied the poet, “I’m even more certain that only money makes a person happy. But I won’t try to prove my point anymore. It’s too expensive. Now it’s your turn to prove yours.”

“I’ll try,” said the singer.

He rummaged through his pockets and pulled out a small lead ball. To be honest, the singer himself didn’t remember what the ball was or how it had ended up in his pocket.

“Take it, poor fellow,” said the singer, handing the ball to Alcide. “Maybe it’ll be more useful to you than money.”

The friends said goodbye and left.

The ball had been in the singer’s pocket for a long time, but it stayed in Alcide’s pocket even longer. He only remembered it when he was starving. Even the guitar no longer brought him joy.

Alcide took out the ball, rolled it on his palm, and thought:

“Sell it? No one would give a single soldo for it. But since someone made it, it must be good for something.”

Then Alcide slapped his forehead.

“Why didn’t I think of this before! It would make a perfect fishing sinker.”

He cut a long, flexible branch from a willow, bent a pin into a hook, tied the ball to a strong thread... In short, within an hour, Alcide was sitting on a large rock by the sea, fishing.

But, as luck would have it, the fish weren’t biting. Alcide sat on the shore all morning and all day. Another person might have given up long ago. But not Alcide. Once he set his mind to something, he stuck with it. Alcide decided to outlast the fish, and he did.

At sunset, the fish started biting. The young fisherman barely had time to reel them in and cast his line again. Oh, what a delicious fish soup he made! If only we could have tasted it!

There was so much fish that Alcide sold half of it at the market early the next morning. Then he ran back to the sea.

And so it went: Alcide spent whole days by the sea with his fishing rod. After six months, he bought a small net. Another six months later, he got a boat and became a proper fisherman.

And what about the poet and the singer? Oh, they were so busy that they completely forgot about the poor guitarist. Both went on long journeys—one to the west, the other to the east—and only met again in their hometown five years later. That’s when they remembered Alcide and decided to visit him.

They went to the old spot. They looked—the hut was gone. In its place stood a cheerful little house. Two children were playing by the house, and a young woman was smiling at them from the doorstep.

The friends approached and asked the woman:

“Do you know what happened to the guitarist Alcide?”

“Of course!” replied the woman, turning around and shouting, “Hey, husband, two important gentlemen have come to visit you.”

The husband came out, and the friends saw that it was indeed Alcide himself. Questions began. Everyone sat on the doorstep, and Alcide started telling his story from the beginning. We won’t listen to the part we already know, but we’ll hear the rest.

“...And so, dear sirs, I got myself a boat, a good net, and became a proper fisherman. Then I took a liking to Giovanna, and of course, she took a liking to me. To be honest, the guitar helped a bit in this matter. In short, within three months, we were married. Well, a young wife shouldn’t live in a ruined hut. We decided to build a house on this spot. We started tearing down the hut... Listen carefully now, dear sirs, this concerns you too. In the old chimney, we found an abandoned crow’s nest, and in the nest was the beret with a hundred scudi. I’m very glad I can finally repay my old debt.”

Alcide ran inside and brought out the tattered beret, jingling with coins. He gave the singer and the poet fifty scudi each and continued his story.

“That’s not all. As soon as we tore up the floor, in the corner, in a mouse hole, we found ninety-nine scudi. I had spent the hundredth scudo on sausages back then. Now I’ve put that missing scudo back.”

At these words, Giovanna, Alcide’s wife, brought out the money in a beautifully tied purse, and Alcide handed it to the poet.

“As for the ball,” he said, “I’ll keep it as a memento.”

As soon as Alcide finished, the old argument flared up between the friends. “Fate!” shouted the singer. “Money!” countered the poet. All the old arguments came out—the aunt’s inheritance and the noble Count Luigi.

Alcide listened and finally intervened.

“Allow me to say my piece. Money is money, fate is fate, but believe me, the most important thing is hard work and perseverance. Maybe your aunt’s inheritance really helped you, sir poet, but for many years you were poor and unknown, yet you didn’t stop writing poetry. You, sir singer, were made famous by Count Luigi, but you didn’t stop singing your songs before that lucky hour when he rowed past you. As for me, everything I’ve achieved is the work of my own hands.”

The singer and the poet were silent for a moment, then both exclaimed:

“By the Madonna, it seems he’s right!”

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What's More Important

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