The Prince Takes a Bride

The night before, she was still plain Miss Shoda, but from the moment her mother called her at 5 the next morning, she was already "Your Highness." "Take care of yourself," said a relative who had come to see her off, "when you go over there." A little after 6 a.m.. her eyes blinking back the tears, Michiko Shoda, 24, bowed stiffly to her parents, entered the antique maroon Mercedes-Benz sent by the palace, and was off to begin her life "over there" as the first commoner in 2,600 years to wed a future Emperor of Japan.

For nearly three hours, in a one-story building on the wooded grounds of the Imperial Palace, attendants worked on her hair, turning the modern bob into the high coiffure that Japanese princesses wore back in the Middle Ages. They clothed her in the juni-hitoe, the "twelve-layered garment" of red, lavender, blue, green and white silk and brocade. Then they took her to the Kashikodokoro, the "awe-inspiring place" that houses the facsimile of the Sacred Mirror, one of the three symbols of the imperial office (the others: the Sacred Jewel, the Sacred Sword). There, promptly at 10:01, "the Ceremony Before the Great Ancestors" began.

Sakaki & Sake. There were 869 carefully selected guests in the outer garden of the shrine, including 37 former peers, Premier Kishi and his Cabinet, a Nobel Prizewinning physicist, the farmer who last year grew the most rice per acre, and only one foreigner--Mrs. Elizabeth Gray Vining, the American Quaker who was the prince's tutor from 1946 to 1950.

In accordance with tradition, the Emperor and Empress were barred from the wedding; they, like the rest of Japan, had to be satisfied with watching it on television. Nor did those present see much of the actual ceremony. Led by the white-robed Chief Ritualist, the little wedding procession quickly disappeared within the shrine. Crown Prince Akihito, wearing his saffron-yellow robes, was attended only by his grand chamberlain, a trainbearer, a Shinto priest, and another chamberlain carrying the 700-year-old sword, the symbol of Akihito's royal rank.

Kneeling side by side in the inner sanctum, the prince and princess each received holy sprigs of a sakaki tree, and with these in their hands, they bowed four times. The prince then pulled out of his long sleeve a scroll, informing his ancestors that "from now on we shall love each other forever." After withdrawing on their knees to the outer sanctum, the couple took tiny sips of sake. At the moment the cup left Michi's lips, she was Akihito's wife.

Holiday & Amnesty. The day's ordeal had only just begun. The prince retired to change into white tie and tails and to grab a bite or two of a ham sandwich. Michi had her hair washed and reset, and, over a white and gold Western dress, for the first time donned the pearl-studded, golden Order of the Sacred Crown. At 2 p.m. the young couple officially reported the marriage to the Emperor and Empress. After exchanging cups of sake and going through the ritual of symbolic eating, the prince and his bride stepped into a rust-colored carriage for the five-mile drive to his Eastern Palace--a shabby place, cluttered with clerks and files on the first floor, and no match for the luxurious home that Michiko, a millionaire flour miller's daughter, is leaving.

A holiday had been declared, amnesty had been granted to 100,000 prisoners, and an estimated 10,000 other young couples also got married. But there was at least one Japanese who resented the festive occasion. As the bridal entourage rolled down one of Tokyo's main streets, a 19-year-old boy threw a stone at the couple. When he missed, he tried to climb inside the carriage. As Michiko took refuge across Akihito's lap, two liveried footmen shoved the youth aside; half a dozen policemen knocked him to the ground and then led him away. He proved to be one Kensetsu Nakayama, a former gas-station attendant who had failed to pass two university entrance examinations. "I only wanted Akihito to get out and talk to me," he insisted at police headquarters. "I wanted to convince him that Japan should be a republic." Unaware of what genteel penury the Japanese royal family lives in, he also seemed to think that royal pomp was a heavy drain on the poor.

Kensetsu Nakayama may have been the only stone-throwing republican in sight, but Akihito's unprecedented marriage was not quite the big draw everyone anticipated. Though officials had expected at least 1,000,000 people to jam the streets, only about half that number showed up; modern Japan preferred to watch the proceedings on television. Back in 1924, the Emperor's wedding had cost $1,500,000; the bill for Akihito's, with all banquets and receptions included, will come to only $140,000. The crowds waved and cheered, but not with the same frenzied banzais that once greeted the heir to the Emperor.

The 26 Rice Cakes. In fact, it will be Akihito's task--well begun with his marriage to Michiko--to find a new publie role for the royal family. Palace officials have lately been quizzing British guests at cocktail parties for advice on how to achieve that successful British blend of public affection and respect. The royal couple have been advised to show themselves especially fond of children and of the poor.

By 6 p.m.. Tokyo was quiet again. The royal couple ate an early supper, read the evening papers, watched themselves for a while on TV. Finally, the 80-year-old Chief Ritualist and his wife brought in the four silver trays with the 26 rice cakes that would remain on the bedroom altar for three days to ensure the early arrival of an heir. At 10 p.m., lights went out at the Eastern Palace.

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