'Cloth'ing the Emperor

This is both a very old tale and a new one.

Because sometimes the lessons learned have to be learned again.

And again.

And again.

You get the picture . . .

Many years ago, in the Empire of Odd, there lived a ruler who was—how can I put this judiciously—self-absorbed. The center of his own universe, he was only happy when all eyes were on him.

And, let’s face it, because he was Emperor, most eyes were just naturally drawn to him.

Moving on . . .

As time went by, in an effort to remain in the ‘public eye’, his antics grew larger. More outrageous.

And a section of the population cheered.

The larger the antics, the louder the cheers and adulation.

Now, one day, this Emperor was walking down the street (occasionally, emperors do normal, ‘regular person’ things like that) and noticed a very well-dressed man walking along on the opposite side.

This Emperor thought, “He is very well dressed” or something similar and decided right then and there that, not only must he be the most visible person in his empire, but also the most ‘visible’ person as well, if you catch my meaning.

He sent out a command to all of his people that anyone with a modicum of sewing ability was to come to his court and dress him.

And they came.

Dragging along patterns and materials that could only be worn (or afforded) by the very tip-top of society.

And the Emperor was happy.

Soon, however, he had exhausted his own tailors, so he sent to other countries, demanding their very best as well.

And they came.

They dressed him in silks and satins of every conceivable colour.

And with each new outfit, the Emperor’s vanity grew.

He took to parading along the main streets in each new outfit, fully expecting his populace to stand in awe at his resplendence (Oooh! Good word!).

And they did.

Then one day a couple of ‘tailors’ appeared at the gates of the palace with pleasant smiles. And a lot of moxy.

The two claimed that they could weave the most amazing, most stupendous (their word) cloth ever seen.

Of course they were whisked immediately to the Emperor.

And of course put immediately to work.

For days, they sat up in their rooms, living off the contents of the minibar and the bounty of the empire while they ‘wove’ their stupendous (see above) cloth.

And the word went round the empire (because the two tailors had confided to the major domo) that this amazing new cloth was unlike anything anyone had ever seen. Mainly because one had to be of unusual intelligence to be able to see it.

Finally, they announced that they were ready.

Gathering the Emperor and a room full of his courtiers, they brought out a large chest.

“Now,” they said in their most stentorian tones, “There is something you must remember about this cloth (and by association, this suit of clothes) before we reveal it.”

The room was satisfactorily silent.

“Only those who are of utmost intelligence will be able to see either.”

There were nods of knowing in the audience.

Including one or two from the Emperor, himself.

Certainly that word had reached far and wide.

The lid of the chest was flung back to further oohs and aahs and the two men reached in and pulled out their masterpiece.

Now just to be clear, these two men were charlatans and wouldn’t have known a needle from a pork belly. The chest, which appeared to all the people gathered to be empty, was, well and truly, empty.

But the genius of the scheme was that no one could admit it.

Because doing so would be admitting they were . . . erm . . . less than intelligent.

And, let’s face it—no one’s pride wants that.

Especially a self-absorbed, egotistical, rather narcissistic Emperor.

So the oohs and aahs increased in volume as the ‘cloth’ (and by association) ‘suit of clothes’ were revealed.

The charlatans pointed out various selling . . . points and the Emperor was duly dressed.

Of course he was standing there starkers.

And of course no one could (or would) tell him.

The parade that day to show off this amazing new suit of clothes would be remembered for all time, not for what the people saw. But for the fact that they saw too much.

I mean, some things just naturally should be kept under wraps.

Am I right?

So there pranced the Emperor, niggly bits and all.

Finally and completely exposed to the general populace.

And no one dared to mention it.

Until at last, one small, innocent, child pointed and, in his penetratingly shrill child’s voice, said, “Mama? How come the Emperor is naked?”

Of course everyone, including said prancing Emperor, heard.

Of course everyone, including said prancing Emperor, realized that they had been duped.

The Emperor was well and duly exposed. (*snort*)

And the people realized that their Emperor was so self-absorbed that he would fall for anything just to be noticed.

And they had allowed it.

There was immediate and unmistakable twittering and guffawing among the people.

Oh, some kind person covered said niggly bits and helped the crimson-faced Emperor to leave quietly.

But the lesson remained.

Putting on a good show doesn’t make for a good show.

And . . .

Deceit and pride can be overcome by innocence and truth.