An Imperial Message


The Emperor, so a parable runs, has sent a message to you, the humble
subject, the insignificant shadow cowering in the remotest distance
before the imperial sun; the Emperor from his deathbed has sent a
message to you alone. He has commanded the messenger to kneel down by
the bed, and has whispered the message to him; so much store did he
lay on it that he ordered the messenger to whisper it back into his
ear again. Then by a nod of the head he has confirmed that it is
right. Yes, before the assembled spectators of his death--all the
obstructing walls have been broken down, and on the spacious and
loftily mounting open staircases stand in a ring the great princes of
the Empire--before all these he has delivered his message. The
messenger immediately sets out on his journey; a powerful, an
indefatigable man; now pushing with his right arm, now with his left,
he cleaves a way for himself through the throng; if he encounters
resistance he points to his breast, where the symbol of the sun
glitters; the way is made easier for him than it would be for any
other man. But the multitudes are so vast; their numbers have no end.
If he could reach the open fields how fast he would fly, and soon
doubtless you would hear the welcoming hammering of his fists on your
door. But instead how vainly does he wear out his strength; still he
is only making his way through the chambers of the innermost palace;
never will he get to the end of them; and if he succeeded in that
nothing would be gained; he must next fight his way down the stair;
and if he succeeded in that nothing would be gained; the courts would
still have to be crossed; and after the courts the second outer
palace; and once more stairs and courts; and once more another palace;
and so on for thousands of years; and if at last he should burst
through the outermost gate--but never, never can that happen--the
imperial capital would lie before him, the center of the world,
crammed to bursting with its own sediment. Nobody could fight his way
through here even with a message from a dead man. But you sit at your
window when evening falls and dream it to yourself.