In the early 1800s, Hans Christian Anderson wrote the famed story, “The Emperor’s New Clothes,” telling of an extremely vain ruler who was tricked into parading through the streets of his city wearing absolutely nothing. The story has been told and retold, but until recently, I did not know that there was a sequel (kind of) to the original tale. It seems that sometime in the early 1900s a young writer named Eugene Moline penned a new story titled, “The New Emperor’s Old Foolishness.” The title isn’t great, but it’s an interesting story that’s worth retelling here.
The New Emperor’s Old Foolishness
by Eugene Moline (retold and refined)
In the days after the Emperor paraded through town wearing absolutely nothing, at first he was blissfully unaware of what had occurred. Eventually, however, the truth became unavoidable. What began as embarrassment grew into shame, and shame into madness. Unable to bear the weight of his humiliation, the Emperor abdicated his throne and fled into exile, seeking a place where no one knew of his folly.
Upon his departure, his younger brother ascended to the throne.
One might have expected that he would learn from his brother’s failure. Instead, where the former Emperor had been vain, the new Emperor proved distant and aloof—content with the title, but uninterested in the responsibilities that came with it.
It was the custom of the kingdom for its people to bring their needs before the Emperor. The former ruler, distracted though he often was, listened just enough that the people believed he cared. The new Emperor, however, perfected the appearance of listening without ever truly hearing.
A farmer once approached him and said, “It is near harvest time, and I have not enough workers. Might Your Majesty send help so the wheat does not spoil in the fields?”
The Emperor stared ahead, raised his hand slightly, and dismissed him without a word.
Next came a widow, who said, “My husband died in service to the crown, and my children and I have nothing. Please help us until I can provide for them myself.”
The Emperor yawned, glanced aside, and waved her away.
So it went, day after day.
Yet it could not be said that the Emperor was idle. He was often seen about the palace—straightening banners, arranging displays, and attending meals where others could observe him. He took great care that the royal coin counters stacked their coins in perfect rows, and that no dust gathered atop the highest cabinets in the dining hall. These matters received his full attention.
Meanwhile, the concerns of the kingdom did not.
From time to time, the Emperor would gather his court and speak at length about excellence, progress, and expectations. He spoke with great authority and for great duration. Yet when he finished, none present could say what had been decided, what had changed, or what was expected of them.
Though the Emperor had wise advisors and capable generals, he rarely sought their counsel. Instead, he spent much of his time with a stable boy who praised him endlessly and a court jester whose talents lay not in governance, but in amusement. When decisions were required, it was often the jester who provided the guidance the Emperor followed.
At times, the Emperor warned that unseen forces beyond the kingdom were watching closely and were not pleased. He spoke of complaints and concerns brought against his people, though he named no names and offered no details. Those who served the kingdom grew cautious, speaking less freely, unsure of what danger might come from words alone.
And should trouble arise, they learned quickly that they would face it alone.
While General Warrick pleaded for resources to defend the kingdom, the stable boy rode in a gold-plated carriage, and the jester was rewarded handsomely whether he appeared at court or not. When the jester once complained of a slight, the Emperor ordered the general arrested without question.
In time, the people began to lose hope.
Their needs went unmet. Their voices went unheard. Their best leaders were ignored—or worse. And so, one by one, the kingdom’s most capable servants quietly gathered their belongings and departed, taking their wisdom and talents to lands where they might be seen, heard, and valued.
There was no great collapse. No single moment of ruin.
Only a slow and steady decline, as the kingdom weakened under a ruler who was often seen—but rarely present—and who, in the end, cared more for the appearance of leadership than for the people he was meant to lead.
About Douglas Blaine
Capnpen is a writer who was a newspaper and magazine journalist in a previous life. A college journalism major, he now works as an English teacher, but gets his writing fix by blogging about a variety of topics, including politics, religion, movies and television. When he's not working or blogging, Capnpen spends time with his family, plays a little golf (badly) and loves to learn about virtually anything.
An Update On an Old Fable — (Emperors, Clothes and Misplaced Priorities)…
In the early 1800s, Hans Christian Anderson wrote the famed story, “The Emperor’s New Clothes,” telling of an extremely vain ruler who was tricked into parading through the streets of his city wearing absolutely nothing. The story has been told and retold, but until recently, I did not know that there was a sequel (kind of) to the original tale. It seems that sometime in the early 1900s a young writer named Eugene Moline penned a new story titled, “The New Emperor’s Old Foolishness.” The title isn’t great, but it’s an interesting story that’s worth retelling here.
The New Emperor’s Old Foolishness
by Eugene Moline (retold and refined)
In the days after the Emperor paraded through town wearing absolutely nothing, at first he was blissfully unaware of what had occurred. Eventually, however, the truth became unavoidable. What began as embarrassment grew into shame, and shame into madness. Unable to bear the weight of his humiliation, the Emperor abdicated his throne and fled into exile, seeking a place where no one knew of his folly.
Upon his departure, his younger brother ascended to the throne.
One might have expected that he would learn from his brother’s failure. Instead, where the former Emperor had been vain, the new Emperor proved distant and aloof—content with the title, but uninterested in the responsibilities that came with it.
It was the custom of the kingdom for its people to bring their needs before the Emperor. The former ruler, distracted though he often was, listened just enough that the people believed he cared. The new Emperor, however, perfected the appearance of listening without ever truly hearing.
A farmer once approached him and said, “It is near harvest time, and I have not enough workers. Might Your Majesty send help so the wheat does not spoil in the fields?”
The Emperor stared ahead, raised his hand slightly, and dismissed him without a word.
Next came a widow, who said, “My husband died in service to the crown, and my children and I have nothing. Please help us until I can provide for them myself.”
The Emperor yawned, glanced aside, and waved her away.
So it went, day after day.
Yet it could not be said that the Emperor was idle. He was often seen about the palace—straightening banners, arranging displays, and attending meals where others could observe him. He took great care that the royal coin counters stacked their coins in perfect rows, and that no dust gathered atop the highest cabinets in the dining hall. These matters received his full attention.
Meanwhile, the concerns of the kingdom did not.
From time to time, the Emperor would gather his court and speak at length about excellence, progress, and expectations. He spoke with great authority and for great duration. Yet when he finished, none present could say what had been decided, what had changed, or what was expected of them.
Though the Emperor had wise advisors and capable generals, he rarely sought their counsel. Instead, he spent much of his time with a stable boy who praised him endlessly and a court jester whose talents lay not in governance, but in amusement. When decisions were required, it was often the jester who provided the guidance the Emperor followed.
At times, the Emperor warned that unseen forces beyond the kingdom were watching closely and were not pleased. He spoke of complaints and concerns brought against his people, though he named no names and offered no details. Those who served the kingdom grew cautious, speaking less freely, unsure of what danger might come from words alone.
And should trouble arise, they learned quickly that they would face it alone.
While General Warrick pleaded for resources to defend the kingdom, the stable boy rode in a gold-plated carriage, and the jester was rewarded handsomely whether he appeared at court or not. When the jester once complained of a slight, the Emperor ordered the general arrested without question.
In time, the people began to lose hope.
Their needs went unmet. Their voices went unheard. Their best leaders were ignored—or worse. And so, one by one, the kingdom’s most capable servants quietly gathered their belongings and departed, taking their wisdom and talents to lands where they might be seen, heard, and valued.
There was no great collapse. No single moment of ruin.
Only a slow and steady decline, as the kingdom weakened under a ruler who was often seen—but rarely present—and who, in the end, cared more for the appearance of leadership than for the people he was meant to lead.
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About Douglas Blaine
Capnpen is a writer who was a newspaper and magazine journalist in a previous life. A college journalism major, he now works as an English teacher, but gets his writing fix by blogging about a variety of topics, including politics, religion, movies and television. When he's not working or blogging, Capnpen spends time with his family, plays a little golf (badly) and loves to learn about virtually anything.