The Emperor’s New Clothes is a classic fairytale about vanity, deception, and the power of truth. It tells the story of a foolish Emperor who cares more about his appearance than his people, only to be tricked by two cunning weavers. This timeless tale reminds us that sometimes, the truth is right in front of us—we just need the courage to see it.
The Emperor’s New Clothes
Once upon a time, there was a vain and selfish Emperor who was in charge of a distant land. He really thought a lot of himself but didn’t much care about the people he ruled over. They would come to him with their problems, and he would simply roll his eyes and send them away.
The one thing he did care about was how he looked. He would spend hours every day making sure his hair was perfectly styled, his teeth were whiter than white, and his clothes were the most fashionable, the most expensive, the most exclusive (that means he wanted things that no one else had). The worst thing he could imagine was turning up to some party wearing the same thing as someone else.
He had tailors who would create more and more elaborate and unusual clothes for him… and he always asked for MORE. Brighter. Shinier. More jewels. More ruffles. More. MORE. MORE!
If his tailors couldn’t deliver what he wanted, he would simply throw them out of the window into the lake, and they would have to go home dripping and sad.
“BOOOORIIIING,” he would groan.
“RUBBISH!” he would shout.
“LAAAAME,” he would cry.
And out of the window, the poor tailors would fly. Splish splash splosh.
After a few years of this, the land was running out of tailors. The Emperor sent out messengers to find new ones in other kingdoms, and they came from far and wide to show the Emperor their new and exciting outfits, but in the end, they all ended up splish splash sploshing into the lake.
The Emperor was terribly frustrated. He sent out more messengers to declare that if anyone could bring him fresh and exciting clothes—something no one had ever seen before—there would be a huge reward.
A week later, two men arrived at the palace. They said they were Master Weavers and could weave magical cloth. The Emperor had worn every type of cloth—cloth spun from pure gold, cloth spun from tarantula silk, cloth spun from sugar, from rose petals, even from mermaid hair… but he had never had magical cloth before.
He ushered the Master Weavers into the royal tailor room and told them to get on with it as the royal parade was coming up and he needed to look his best, and with that, he left.
After a while, he returned to see how the Weavers were getting on. To his utter dismay, they didn’t appear to have done anything at all. The machines were whirring and spinning, and the Master Weavers appeared to be working very hard, but where the finished cloth should be coming out and wrapping around a wooden spool… there was nothing.
The Emperor strode over and said, “What is the meaning of this? Where is this magical cloth you speak of?”
One of the Master Weavers said, “But surely you can see it, Sire? The magical cloth we weave can only be seen by those who are worthy, fit to rule, clever, and decent. If a person cannot see the cloth, it can only mean that they are a fool. Daft, silly, and utterly unsuitable to be in charge.”
The Emperor stared hard at the wooden spool again.
“So…” said the other Master Weaver, “Can you see it…?”
“Ahhh,” the Emperor said finally… “Yes, there it is, I see it now. Perfectly clearly, and it is very beautiful, if I may say so.”
“We knew you would,” the first Master Weaver said matter-of-factly, turning and getting back to work.
“You’re no fool,” the second Master Weaver said.
The Emperor nodded importantly and marched from the room.
When the Master Weavers were sure he had gone, they took one look at each other and burst out laughing.
“What. An. Idiot!!” they howled, clutching at their sides, tears pouring down their cheeks. When they were finished rolling around on the ground, they went and lounged on the sofa. There was no point working on imaginary cloth with no one watching.
The next day, the Master Weavers were summoned to the throne room to present the clothing to the Emperor. He sat upon his throne with his chest puffed out, a pompous look on his face.
The Master Weavers presented the Emperor with an empty mannequin, and the assembled crowd of lords and ladies, servants, and jesters all gasped in shock and looked to the Emperor, expecting him to have them thrown from the window into the lake.
But the Emperor simply smiled. “Exquisite,” he said, and clicked his fingers, bringing forward two servants carrying a large chest overflowing with gold and jewels.
“As promised,” he announced, “I present the two Master Weavers with this reward for creating the most innovative and fascinating clothes I have ever had the pleasure of seeing. This magical cloth can only be seen by those who are worthy, fit to rule, clever, and decent. If you cannot see the clothes on this mannequin, then you are daft, silly, and utterly unsuitable to be in charge. A fool!” he recited. “Is there anyone in the room who is unable to see this magnificent outfit?”
A few of the lords and ladies shuffled their feet. Of course, they could not see the clothes, for there was nothing there to be seen, but they didn’t know that!
As one, they began clapping and congratulating the Master Weavers for their impressive achievement.
“How novel!” one said.
“Utterly chic!” said another.
“I wonder if they’re taking orders!” said another.
The poor Emperor thought everyone in the room could see the clothes but him! If the lords and ladies thought he couldn’t see them, they would think him a fool! He must keep pretending.
Later that day, it was time for the grand parade, a celebration of the wealth and power of the Emperor and an opportunity for his people to shower him with praise and adoration.
Usually, it was his favourite event of the year.
Nervously, he climbed up onto the royal parade chair. The servants carrying it looked pointedly at their feet.
And so, the parade began. Soldiers dressed in all of their finery, dancers wearing glittering, feathered costumes, acrobats on the backs of horses, musicians playing all of the Emperor’s favourite songs. What a spectacle it was!
And at the very end of the parade, the Emperor was carried, waving and smiling at the crowd, blowing kisses to the pretty ladies, wearing nothing but his royal underpants.
The cheering crowd was suddenly quiet, and then they began to point and laugh at the Emperor.
“What a fool!” they cried.
“Even more ridiculous than usual!” they guffawed.
“How embarrassing!” they cringed.
The Emperor finally realised that he had been the victim of a cruel trick, and he also realised how little he really was adored by the people of the land.
He jumped from his chair and ran home in his pants, with the laughter of the crowd ringing in his ears.
He learned an important lesson that day—to be a little more sensible about who he trusted to tell him the truth (good or bad), to be a little less interested in himself, and a little more interested in the people of his kingdom.
And with those lessons learned, everyone lived happily ever after.
Also read: Aladdin and the Magic Lamp
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