The Emperor's New Clothes

The looms clattered day and night without stopping, and the sound carried out of the largest weaving room in the capital. The shuttle flew back and forth in a steady rhythm, and its beat reached all the way into the corridor. Yet anyone who peeked inside saw only an empty wooden frame, without a single thread of silk stretched across it.

A Danish writer told this story in 1837. It tells of a faraway capital where an emperor loved exactly one thing in the world, and that was fine clothes. He had a different outfit for every hour of the day, one in the morning, one at noon, another in the afternoon, and his wardrobes were piled sky-high, like a treasure trove. He had no wish to watch his soldiers drill on the parade ground, to stroll the streets or to go to the theater. He went out only when the whole capital could admire his newest finery. At court, the officials no longer talked about the affairs of the country. Whenever anyone asked where His Majesty was, the answer was always the same. His Majesty was in his dressing room.

One day, two strange weavers arrived in the capital. They called themselves the most gifted weavers in the world, able to make cloth with brilliant colors and intricate patterns that no one had ever seen. But what set the whole court buzzing was a magic that came with the cloth. Anyone who was unfit for the office he held, or hopelessly stupid, could never see the cloth, even when it lay right before his eyes.

The emperor was secretly delighted to hear it. He thought how wonderful it would be to own such a magic cloth. Just by noticing who could see it and who could not, he would know at once who deserved a place at court and who was only filling a seat that was not his. Straight away he gave the two weavers a large sum of money, along with rolls of smooth silk and precious thread of pure gold, so they could start weaving. The two weavers bowed and took it all, then quietly hid every bit of the silk and gold thread somewhere else. They sat down at the empty looms and moved the shuttle up and down as if they were really weaving. They worked late into every night, so it would look as if they were toiling hard.

The emperor was eager to know how far the wonderful cloth had come. Yet he felt a little uneasy inside. What would he say if he himself could see nothing? So he sent his old minister, the most loyal and trusted man at court, to look at the weaving room first. The minister walked in, looked at the loom, and saw only empty space. He stood frozen and thought to himself, could it be that I am stupid, or no longer fit for my office? No, no one must ever know about this. So he nodded approvingly and praised the brilliant colors and intricate patterns of the cloth. Then he went back and reported to the emperor exactly what the two weavers had whispered to him.

The emperor was reassured by the report and sent another official, a man he trusted just as much, to make certain. This official stepped into the weaving room and looked hard at the loom. He rubbed his eyes and looked again, and still saw nothing at all. He thought, I am not stupid, so it must be that I am unfit for my office, and no one must ever find out. So he nodded as if full of admiration and praised the cloth he could not see. Then he told the emperor that the cloth was beautiful beyond compare, finer than any cloth he had ever seen.

At last the emperor himself went to the weaving room with a group of his closest courtiers, to see everything with his own eyes. Standing before the empty loom, the emperor could not see a single thread either. But he was too frightened to say so. He feared people would think him unfit to rule a whole kingdom. He nodded eagerly and declared the cloth more beautiful than anything he had ever looked upon. Behind him, the courtiers stared into the same empty space, and none of them saw anything. But they glanced at one another, and then they all nodded and praised it too. They even advised that a suit of clothes be made at once from this rare cloth, for His Majesty to wear in the great procession soon to come.

On the night before the procession, the two weavers stayed up all night at the loom, burning more than 16 candles to light the room. They took up huge scissors and snipped away at the empty air. Then they plied their needles quickly, though not one thread ran through the eye of any needle. The next morning, they announced to the whole court that the clothes were finished, more beautiful and finer than any ever sewn.

The two weavers pretended to lift each garment one by one and put it on the emperor. They fastened every invisible button and carefully arranged the long train of the cloak behind him. The emperor stood before the mirror, turning this way and that to admire himself from front to back. The courtiers crowded around him and could not stop praising how well the clothes fit and how splendid they looked.

The procession set off through the main streets of the capital. The emperor walked under a canopy, and his courtiers followed close behind, holding up the long train together as if it were truly heavy. Word of the magic cloth had spread across the capital before that day. As the procession passed, people on both sides of the street marveled at how beautiful the clothes were, how delicate the patterns. No one wanted to be the first to admit seeing nothing. Each feared that the person beside him would think him stupid, or unfit for his own position.

In the crowd, a little boy stood beside his father, craning his neck to watch the procession go by. Then he blurted out, loud and innocent, the way only a child would dare. "Look, Father, His Majesty has nothing on." The father gave a start, then turned to the people beside him. "Just listen to the voice of an innocent child," he said. The child's words reached the ears of those standing close by. They passed from one person to the next and were whispered through the crowd, until the whole street was repeating those very words.

The emperor heard the murmur growing clearer and clearer, and a chill passed through him, for he knew the crowd was right. But the procession had already reached the middle of the street, and it could no longer stop halfway. He held his head high and walked on, prouder than ever. Behind him, the courtiers kept their heads bowed and solemnly carried the long train that was not there at all, all the way to the end of the street.