Many years ago, there lived an emperor who cared for nothing but new clothes. He spent all his money on them. His only ambition was to be always well dressed. He did not care for his soldiers or the theatre. His sole pleasure was to drive out and show off a new suit. He had a coat for every hour of the day. As one would say of a king, "He is in his cabinet," so one could say of him, "The emperor is in his dressing-room."
The great city where he lived was very lively. Every day, many strangers arrived. One day, two swindlers came. They pretended to be weavers and declared they could make the finest cloth imaginable. They said its colors and patterns were exceptionally beautiful, and it possessed a wonderful quality: it would be invisible to anyone who was unfit for their office or unpardonably stupid.
"That must be wonderful cloth!" thought the emperor. "If I wore a suit made of it, I could find out who in my empire is unfit for their place and distinguish the clever from the stupid. I must have this cloth woven for me without delay." He gave the swindlers a large sum of money in advance to start work immediately.
They set up two looms and pretended to work very hard, but they did nothing on the looms. They asked for the finest silk and the most precious gold-cloth, kept it all for themselves, and worked at the empty looms till late at night.
The emperor was curious to see their progress but felt uneasy remembering that anyone unfit for their office could not see the cloth. He thought it best to send someone else first. Everyone in town knew about the cloth's remarkable quality and was anxious to see how bad or stupid their neighbors were.
The emperor decided to send his honest old minister. "He can judge best how the stuff looks, for he is intelligent, and nobody understands his office better than he."
The old minister went into the room where the swindlers sat before the empty looms. "Heaven preserve us!" he thought, opening his eyes wide. "I cannot see anything at all!" But he did not say so. The swindlers asked him to come near and admire the exquisite pattern and beautiful colors, pointing to the empty looms. The poor minister tried his best but saw nothing. "Oh dear," he thought, "can I be so stupid? I must not let anyone know!"
"Now, have you got nothing to say?" asked one swindler, pretending to weave busily.
"Oh, it is very pretty, exceedingly beautiful!" replied the old minister, looking through his glasses. "What a beautiful pattern, what brilliant colors! I shall tell the emperor I like it very much."
The swindlers described the colors and pattern in detail. The minister listened attentively so he could repeat it to the emperor, which he did.
The swindlers then asked for more money, silk, and gold-cloth, which they kept for themselves. Not a thread came near the loom, but they continued to work at the empty looms.
Soon, the emperor sent another honest courtier. Like the old minister, he looked and looked but could see nothing. "I am not stupid," he thought. "It must be that I am not fit for my good appointment. I must not let anyone know." So he praised the cloth he did not see and told the emperor it was excellent.
Everybody in town talked about the precious cloth. Finally, the emperor wished to see it himself. With a number of courtiers, he went to the swindlers, who worked as hard as they could without using any thread.
"Is it not magnificent?" said the two courtiers who had been there before. "Your Majesty must admire the colors and the pattern." They pointed to the empty looms.
"What is this?" thought the emperor. "I do not see anything at all. That is terrible! Am I stupid? Am I unfit to be emperor?"
"Really," he said aloud, "your cloth has our most gracious approval." He nodded contentedly at the empty loom. All his attendants looked and looked, and though they saw nothing, they said, "It is very beautiful." They all advised him to wear the new magnificent clothes at a great procession soon to take place. The emperor appointed the swindlers "Imperial Court weavers."
The whole night before the procession, the swindlers pretended to work by candlelight. They pretended to take the cloth from the loom, cut the air with big scissors, and sew with needles without thread. Finally, they said, "The emperor's new suit is ready now."
The emperor and all his barons came. The swindlers held their arms up as if holding something. "These are the trousers! This is the coat! Here is the cloak! They are as light as a cobweb; one must feel as if wearing nothing. That is their beauty."
"Indeed!" said all the courtiers, though they saw nothing.
"Does it please your Majesty to undress," said the swindlers, "so we may assist you in putting on the new suit before the large looking-glass?"
The emperor undressed. The swindlers pretended to put the new suit on him, piece by piece. The emperor looked at himself in the glass from every side.
"How well they look! How well they fit! What a beautiful pattern! What fine colors!" everyone said.
The master of ceremonies announced that the bearers of the canopy for the procession were ready.
"I am ready," said the emperor. "Does not my suit fit me marvellously?" He turned before the looking-glass so people would think he admired his garments.
The chamberlains who were to carry the train stretched their hands to the ground as if lifting it and pretended to hold something.
The emperor marched in the procession under the beautiful canopy. All who saw him exclaimed, "Indeed, the emperor's new suit is incomparable! What a long train! How well it fits him!" No one wished to admit they saw nothing, for fear of being thought unfit or stupid.
"But he has nothing on at all!" said a little child at last.
"Good heavens! Listen to the voice of an innocent child!" said the father. People whispered what the child had said.
"But he has nothing on at all!" cried the whole people at last.
That made a deep impression on the emperor, for it seemed to him they were right. But he thought, "Now I must bear up to the end." And the chamberlains walked with still greater dignity, as if carrying the train which did not exist.