by Antonio Napoli
Once upon a time, in an African village, there was an irritable, touchy, and proud king. Fortunately, by his side was a very wise man who advised him on all matters of governance, also serving as the minister of justice. However, the king did not always heed his advice.
One day, the minister, losing his patience, dared to tell him that there were things far more authoritative and powerful than the will of a king—principles to which even he had to bow. The king seemed to let that audacious remark slide. But the next day, while riding together on horseback, he felt offended by the distant, absorbed demeanor of a young man who failed to notice the king passing by.
“I have the power to decide life and death over anyone,” he declared, in a tone that clearly referred to the previous day’s conversation. He then ordered the young man’s arrest.
The minister said nothing, though he judged that the boy’s mistake was merely a thoughtless oversight. He certainly did not expect to find on his desk, just hours later, a death sentence for the poor lad.
When the prisoner’s mother came to plead for her son’s life, the minister sought to dissuade the king, urging him toward a more merciful decision. But the proud king, unmoved, responded with a terse note written in a fiery hand:
“PARDON HIM IMPOSSIBLE, EXECUTE HIM!”
The minister was left with no choice but to send the king’s message to the head jailer. However, before doing so, he made a small adjustment—without changing a single word in the note. Heaven forbid he disobey the king!
When, a few days later, the king went out riding again with his minister, he saw the young man, alive and free, on the street. Shocked and angry, he demanded an explanation:
“How is it possible that someone I ordered to be executed is alive and walking free?”
The minister feigned surprise and showed the king his own handwritten note.
“Oh, my sovereign,” he added with great innocence, “there is no doubt that your orders were carried out to the letter—nothing more, nothing less.”
The king’s frown turned into a puzzled expression. On the note, it now read:
“PARDON HIM, IMPOSSIBLE TO EXECUTE HIM!”
“It took just a comma,” the king admitted to himself, “to overturn my authority!” He vowed to take revenge on his minister’s grammatical defiance.
Some time later, while riding with his advisor and reflecting on the fleeting nature of things, the king gazed from a hilltop at his domain and remarked mournfully:
“Everything is like nothing.”
From behind a bush came a mocking voice:
“Oh king, I’d gladly trade my nothing for your everything!”
The king, more touchy than ever, had the insolent man arrested and ordered his execution. This time, to prevent any misinterpretation of his orders—and to avenge the previous grammatical interference—he wrote the sentence with his own hand:
“I ORDER NOTHING BUT HIS DEATH.”
Yet, once again, the execution was not carried out.
“Why not?” the king raged at the minister when he learned of the situation.
The minister, who had taken pity on the man and had once again intervened cleverly, showed the king the altered decree.
“Oh, my sovereign,” he said, “your orders were followed precisely, in the spirit of the wisdom you expressed that day on the hill, which I took the liberty to echo in your death sentence.”
The king read the revised note:
“I ORDER EVERYTHING BUT HIS DEATH.”
“Everything is like nothing, right?” said the minister.
At that point, the king burst out laughing.
If such grammatical cunning had twice prevented an irreparable injustice, then grammar ought to be the most honored and studied subject of all.