The Violin by Adam Acidophilus

There was once a violinist who was held in awe by all that heard him play: composers, conductors – even other violinists – thought he was a genius. They would queue for ages to hear him play, and clap for ages when he'd finished. And then they'd crowd around him and ask him questions about life and death and philosophy.

"I have no time for life or death or philosophy," he would tell them. "For music matters more than anything else."

Such was the violinist's dedication, that he spent all his money on a single violin.

This violin was, of course, terribly old, and had enjoyed a remarkable history; it had been played by the greats and heard by the even greater. It was beautifully made, and beautifully scarred – for the years had left their marks and a patina. And it was said that when you heard it you heard the voices of angels.

"How much?" said his wife, when she heard what he had done. "How much did you say?"

"It is well worth it," he explained. "Because music matters more than anything else."

His concerts attracted ever-larger audiences, many of whom had little time for music, but all of whom had time for the violin. They would cheer at the mere sight of it, gasp as he swung it about, and gulp and gawp at the thought of it getting broken.

And at the end of each performance the violinist would wave the violin above his head and cry "This thing cost a fortune! But I don't care! Because music matters more than anything else!"

Everybody knew about the violin, and everybody knew that it was priceless. It entered the colloquial sayings of the day; like:

and "A wife and a house and a Thingummy's fiddle will bring bad luck, when you see two bitterns a-courting on Pancake Day."

The violinist appeared on television chat shows, where he would play for thirty seconds, then talk for half an hour about the other things he could have bought with the money.

"A country mansion with stables and horses, or an ocean going schooner with crew, or a bottle of champagne every hour until my two hundredth birthday!"

And as he talked he would spin the violin upon his knee, and the audience would shriek and swoon, and tremble at the thought of it getting broken.

"Of course," he would reply. "You know, music matters more than anything else."

Then one day the violinist's wife asked him to take the baby for a walk – which was a figure of speech, for the baby could only lie in its pram.

"Alright, alright, so take the baby for a push!" the wife replied – for she was a of a volatile temperament, and cared little for the logical inaccuracies of everyday usage.

So the violinist set off with the baby in the pram, and tucked the violin beside it under the blankets. (He dared not to leave it at home – for his wife wished to sell it, and squander the proceeds on furniture and saucepans.)

He walked for many miles along the cobbles of the city, whistling a concerto, his precious cargo of son and heirloom in the carriage at his fingertips. But, unfortunately, just as he was crossing a busy junction, the unlucky violinist fell victim to a cruel interplay of circumstance and bad luck.

For the wheels of the pram became wedged in the rails of a tram-line. Try as he might, he could not pull them free. Worse still, before he could summon assistance, a tram began to hurtle towards him. The violinist was faced with an unusually philosophical decision: Which should he save, the violin or the baby? Both were precious, but in different ways. There simply wasn't time to take them both.

With a heavy heart, he grabbed the violin and ran. "My public would never forgive me if my instrument was damaged!" he thought. "What with music mattering more than anything else. And beside – we can always get another baby."

But in fact, once they heard what he had done, his public's reaction was the very opposite of what he had expected.

"How dare you save your ridiculous violin!" they cursed. "And leave your child in the path of a speeding tram!"

"But I had no choice!" wailed the hapless violinist. "You agreed with me! Music matters more than anything else!"

Deaf to his pleas for understanding, he was condemned by popular consent to have his reputation diminished – and his name was entered into different colloquial sayings.

He died in disgrace, broken and alone, far from the concert platform – his precious violin, unplayed, in a box beneath his bed.

However, his child, who had survived the incident unscathed – due to the tram stopping – inherited the violin, sold it, and spent the money.

Moral: Music matters more than anything else, but people don't always like to admit it.