The Emperor's New Clothes

Many, many years ago there lived an emperor who cared so tremendously about new clothes that he spent all his money on them, just to be finely dressed. He did not care about his soldiers, he did not care about the theater, and he loved nothing so much as riding out to show off his new clothes. He had a coat for every hour of the day, and just as one says of a king, "He is in his council chamber," here people always said, "The emperor is in his dressing room."

The great city where he lived was a lively, cheerful place, and every day many strangers arrived there. One day two swindlers came to town. They gave themselves out to be weavers, and they said they knew how to weave the loveliest cloth anyone could imagine. Not only were the colors and the pattern uncommonly beautiful, they said, but the clothes sewn from this cloth had a marvelous quality: they were invisible to anyone who was unfit for his office, or who was hopelessly stupid.

"Those would be splendid clothes indeed," thought the emperor. "If I wore them, I could find out which men in my empire are unfit for the posts they hold. I could tell the clever from the stupid! Yes, this cloth must be woven for me at once!" And he gave the two swindlers a good deal of money in advance so that they might begin their work.

So they set up two looms and pretended to weave, though there was not the least thing on the looms. Boldly they demanded the finest silk and the most glorious gold thread, which they tucked into their own pockets, and they worked away at the empty looms until late into the night.

"I should very much like to know how they are getting on with the cloth," thought the emperor. But he felt a little uneasy when he remembered that whoever was stupid, or unfit for his office, would not be able to see it. Not that he had anything to fear for himself, he believed — still, he thought it best to send someone else first, to see how things stood. Everyone in the whole city knew what a remarkable power the cloth had, and every one of them was eager to find out how foolish or unfit his neighbor might be.

"I will send my honest old minister to the weavers," thought the emperor. "He is the best one to judge how the cloth looks, for he has good sense, and no one understands his office better than he does."

So the good old minister went into the hall where the two swindlers sat working at their empty looms. "Heaven help us!" thought the old minister, and his eyes went wide. "I can't see anything at all!" But he did not say so.

Both swindlers begged him to be so kind as to step closer, and asked whether it wasn't a fine pattern and beautiful colors. Then they pointed to the empty loom, and the poor old minister opened his eyes wider still — but he could see nothing, for there was nothing there. "Lord above!" he thought. "Could it be that I am stupid? I never once believed it, and no one must ever learn it! Could I be unfit for my office? No — it will never do for me to admit that I cannot see the cloth!"

"Well, haven't you anything to say about it?" asked one of the men at the loom.

"Oh, it is charming, quite exquisite!" answered the old minister, peering through his spectacles. "This pattern, these colors! Yes, I shall certainly tell the emperor how much it pleases me."

"Ah, that delights us to hear!" said both weavers, and they named the colors one by one and described the curious pattern. The old minister listened closely, so that he could repeat it all when he returned to the emperor — and that is just what he did.

Now the swindlers asked for still more money, more silk, and more gold, which they said they needed for the weaving. Every bit of it they slipped into their own pockets; not a single thread went onto the loom, yet they went on working, just as before, at the empty looms.

Soon the emperor sent another honest statesman to see how the weaving was coming along, and whether the cloth would soon be finished. It went with him exactly as it had with the first: he looked and looked, but since there was nothing there beyond the empty loom, he could see nothing at all.

"Isn't this a fine piece of cloth?" asked the two swindlers, and they pointed out and described the splendid pattern that was not there at all.

"I am not stupid," thought the man. "So it must be my good office that I am not fit for. Strange indeed — but I must not let it show!" So he praised the cloth he could not see, and assured them how the beautiful colors and glorious pattern delighted him. "Yes, it is perfectly charming!" he told the emperor.

Everyone in the city was talking about the magnificent cloth.

Now the emperor wished to see it for himself while it was still on the loom. With a whole crowd of chosen men — among them the two honest statesmen who had already been there — he went to the two cunning swindlers, who were now weaving with all their might, without a fiber or a thread.

"Isn't it splendid?" said the two statesmen who had come before. "See, Your Majesty, what a pattern, what colors!" And they pointed to the empty loom, for they were sure the others could see the cloth.

"What!" thought the emperor. "I see nothing at all! This is dreadful! Am I stupid? Am I unfit to be emperor? That would be the most terrible thing that could happen to me." "Oh, it is very lovely!" he said aloud. "It has my highest approval!" And he nodded contentedly and gazed at the empty loom, for he would not say that he could see nothing. His whole retinue looked and looked, and got no more out of it than all the rest — but they said, just as the emperor did, "Oh, it is lovely!" And they advised him to wear these splendid new clothes for the first time at the great procession that was soon to take place. "It is glorious, exquisite, excellent!" passed from mouth to mouth, and everyone seemed heartily delighted. The emperor granted the two swindlers the title of Imperial Court Weavers.

All through the night before the morning of the procession, the swindlers stayed up, and they burned more than sixteen candles. People could see how hard at work they were, finishing the emperor's new clothes. They pretended to lift the cloth from the loom, they snipped the air with great scissors, they sewed with needles that had no thread, and at last they said, "There — the clothes are finished now!"

The emperor came in person, with his most distinguished gentlemen, and each swindler lifted one arm as though holding something up and said, "See, here are the trousers! Here is the coat! Here the cloak!" and so on. "They are as light as a spider's web. You might think you had nothing on at all — but that is the very beauty of them!"

"Yes, indeed!" said all the gentlemen. But they could see nothing, for there was nothing there.

"Would Your Imperial Majesty most graciously deign to take off your clothes," said the swindlers, "so that we may dress you in the new ones, here before the great mirror?"

The emperor took off all his clothes, and the swindlers made as if they were fitting each new piece upon him, one after another. And the emperor turned this way and that before the mirror.

"Oh, how well they suit you! How marvelously they fit!" everyone said. "What a pattern, what colors! What a magnificent costume!"

"The men are waiting outside with the canopy that is to be carried above Your Majesty in the procession," announced the master of ceremonies.

"See, I am ready!" said the emperor. "Doesn't it fit well?" And he turned once more to the mirror, so that it might seem he was truly admiring his splendid clothes.

The chamberlains who were to carry the train reached their hands down to the floor, just as though they were lifting it up. They walked along holding something in the air, for they dared not let it be seen that they could see nothing at all.

So the emperor walked in the procession beneath the beautiful canopy, and all the people in the street and at the windows said, "Heavens, how incomparable the emperor's new clothes are! What a train he has on his robe! How beautifully it fits!" Not one of them would let it be known that he saw nothing, for then he would have been unfit for his office, or terribly stupid. No clothes of the emperor's had ever met with such success.

"But he hasn't anything on at all!" said a little child at last. "Good heavens, listen to the voice of the innocent!" said the father, and one person whispered to another what the child had said.

"But he hasn't anything on at all!" cried all the people at last. This struck the emperor to the heart, for it seemed to him that they were right; but he thought to himself, "Now I must go through with the procession." And so the chamberlains walked on, holding themselves stiffer than ever, and carried the train that was not there at all.