The Emperor's New Clothes
A splendid procession depends on everyone being too embarrassed to describe what they see.
An emperor loved new clothes more than meetings, gardens, or good government. When two strangers promised him cloth visible only to the wise and capable, he ordered a magnificent suit at once.
The strangers set up empty looms. They requested silk and gold thread, pocketed both, and worked their hands through the air.
The emperor sent a trusted minister to inspect their progress. The man saw nothing. Afraid that this revealed some terrible fault in himself, he praised the pattern. A second official praised the colors. Soon the whole court was discussing a fabric nobody had seen.
When the emperor visited, the weavers pointed to the empty loom. He, too, saw nothing. He, too, admired everything.
On the day of the procession, they dressed him in gestures. His attendants pretended to lift a splendid train. Outside, the crowd had heard that only foolish people would fail to see the suit, so everyone applauded.
Then a child asked why the emperor was wearing nothing.
A few people laughed nervously. Someone repeated the question. Soon the truth traveled along the street faster than the procession itself.
The emperor understood. But he was already beneath the canopy, and he could not bear to stop. He straightened his back and continued walking. Behind him, his attendants held the invisible train a little higher.
The child watched them go. It seemed extraordinary that telling the truth had been simple, while admitting it could still be so difficult.
An original retelling of a traditional tale.
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