It was a pleasant evening, and the studio was in Uchisaiwaichō, not too far from the Imperial Palace, so I cycled past the old walls, so familiar to me, and out into the traffic, through the city streets, home to Mejiro.

  Apart from horse riding, tennis was the Crown Prince’s favourite sport, and I grew used to him turning up to see me in those immaculate whites, his sport-wearing, either before or after a game.

  Someone in the staff room asked me one day if the Crown Prince was playing a lot of tennis these days, and whether he was enjoying it more than usual.

  I said he had always enjoyed the game and as far as I knew he played it very well.

  I didn’t quite understand the import of the question, then I saw an American magazine with an article about the Crown Prince, featuring a photograph of him with his tennis partner, a beautiful young woman by the name of Michiko Shoda. The article dropped none-too-subtle hints that this was the future Princess. The headline was Love Match.

  It was typical that I should be oblivious. The Prince had said nothing. The main Japanese newspapers, no doubt by agreement, had not run the story.

  Tomiko, of course, knew all about it, as did Harumi and Nana. Some small magazine had published the photograph, fuelling speculation, and then it had appeared in the American press.

  Don’t you know anything? asked Tomiko.

  Apparently not.

  Harumi said since the Prince’s coming of age, they had been searching for his Princess. They had considered hundreds of candidates.

  Hundreds?

  At least!

  Candidates?

  Of course.

  That makes it sound like they were running for public office.

  They said the marriage had to be arranged. It could not be left to chance. The Chosen One had to be someone appropriate, from the right background.

  Naturally.

  Also it could not be someone taller than the Prince.

  Or older than him.

  Unthinkable!

  But surely the Prince would have some say in the matter.

  Nana said he had declared, I will have this girl and no other. (She pointed dramatically). No other!

  When I next spoke to Yamanashi, he explained further. Traditionally the future Empress would be chosen from Imperial relatives or a very small group of aristocratic families.

  But, he said. Much has changed since the war. These are modern times. The Crown Prince, as you well know, is a young man with his own ideas and a strong will.

  But the marriage must still be arranged?

  Think of your King George and Queen Mary, he said. Their marriage was arranged, but it was a long and happy one. On the other hand, when things are left to fortune, it may be a situation like the Duke of Windsor, marrying someone inappropriate, with resulting chaos.

  But by all accounts, I said, a decision has been made.

  I think everyone will be happy, he said. Then he laughed. Well, almost everyone! There has once again been…resistance…in some quarters.

  I understand the young lady is not of royal birth.

  Not even aristocratic, he said. But she is from very good family. Her father is a wealthy industrialist. Of course, and again as you well know, the Imperial Rescript, which you helped to translate, has gone at least some way to reducing the gulf between the Emperor and his people.

  Still…

  Yes, he said. Still!

  I imagine it will be difficult for the young woman herself.

  Indeed, he said. She has been, shall we say apprehensive. But the Crown Prince is determined. He is very keen on this Love Match. Perhaps you should ask him about it next time you meet.

  The next time Prince Akihito came to me for his lesson, straight from the tennis court, I asked if he had, as usual, enjoyed the game, and this time I also asked if it had been a love match.

  For a moment he looked surprised, wrong-footed. He actually blushed a little, then catching my eye he laughed and said, So, the cat is out of the bag!

  I’m afraid so.

  He asked if I had married for love and I said Yes, neglecting to add, Both times…

  He said he hoped it would not be too long before I could meet the future Princess Michiko in person. I said I was greatly looking forward to it. He was a young man of rare good taste and discrimination. How could the young lady be other than enchanting?

  Yes, he said. Enchanting.

  There were dissenting voices. These were troubled times – the threat of a general strike, fear of full-blown revolution. There were those who denounced the royal betrothal as a distraction, a side-show to deflect attention from harsh political realities. (It certainly served that function). The novelist Shichiro Fukazawa wrote a vitriolic diatribe expressing the hope that the Imperial family should die out completely.

  Just a few years ago this same Fukazawa published a short story called Fūryū Mutan – An Elegant Dream. It imagined the Emperor and Empress beheaded by a revolutionary guard, while the Crown Prince and Princess lay on the ground, awaiting the same fate. The story provoked outrage, and Fukuzawa was forced to apologise and go into a kind of exile, shunned and unable to publish his work. For me the story brought back an uncomfortable memory of my own dream, prior to meeting MacArthur, in which the royal family, like the Romanovs, were taken away and executed.

  It is curious what details stay in the memory. In Fukuzawa’s story, for some reason the Emperor wore an expensive overcoat labelled Made in England.

  The mind is its own place.

  Tomiko and the girls wanted to see the first interview with the Princess to be broadcast on television. I had no intention of buying a set, so we went to the home of a neighbour, Mrs Tomira, to watch the programme. (It brought back that image of my mother and half of Leytonstone crowding round a small set to watch the coronation)

  It could not have been easy for the Princess facing the cameras, the questions posed by eager journalists. But she stayed poised, and dignified, and also displayed that quality I had seen in her, a lightness touched with humour, that chame.

  What country impressed you most on your recent trip abroad?

  That is difficult to answer because my visit was so short.

  Very diplomatic, I said

  The girls shooshed me.

  Is it true that the Crown Prince told you on your trip to be sure to visit Scotland?

  He did not say, Be sure!

  Good! I said. Set them straight!

  Sssshhh!

  Who is the better tennis player, you or the Crown Prince?

  The Crown Prince, without doubt.

  At this the girls laughed. I had told them the Crown Prince had confessed that she had beaten him more than once when they played doubles.

  She beat him! said Nana. She is better!

  They were in total agreement that the Princess was wonderful. Harumi was much taken with her dress – she explained it was ivory brocade – and the little white hat she wore. Tomiko said the Crown Prince was very lucky. Nana was the most enthusiastic of all, said the story was like a fairytale. They all called the Princess Michiko Sama, claiming her as their own.

  Yamanashi was delighted with the broadcast.

  You see? he said. Surrounded by wary, scrutinising reporters, she dispersed all anxieties completely.

  I couldn’t have put it better, I said.

  She was not a bit swayed or tottered in that occasion.

  Not in the least.

  I am sure she charmed all observers and showed she will bring peace and happiness to the Crown Prince.

  Peace and Happiness, I said, as if proposing a toast.

  Peace and Happiness.

  Eventually I met the Crown Prince’s betrothed, his beloved, Michiko Sama, and found her every bit as charming as we had been led to believe.

  I understood I was to turn up at the Palace as usual for my weekly session with the Prince, as usual park my bicycle by the palace gate, as usual remove my trouser-clips, dust myself down and straighten my tie, run a hand through my hair. But on this occasion the Princess-to-be was to grace us with her presence. And that was the truth of it. She had all the qualities we had seen in the TV interview – the lightness, the poise – but heightened and enhanced on meeting her in person.

  She spoke English with fluency and ease, albeit with the trace of an American accent. She told me she loved the language and had done her student dissertation on Galsworthy.

  Conflict and Reconciliation in The Forsyte Saga, she said, smiling.

  Most useful, I said.

  Yes!

  I told her she spoke beautifully, and she did. She thanked me and said she very much looked forward to our conversations.

  As did I, I told her, bowing deep. As did I.

  At my next meeting with the Crown Princess-to-be, I was delighted when she spoke to me about poetry. She said certain poems had helped her and sustained her through difficult times, especially during the dark days of the war. She said there was one particular poem by Robert Frost…

  An exceptional poet, I said.

  Yes, she said. I think so too. I first read this one in translation by Tomoji Abe.

  A firebrand, I said. Quite radical in his views.

  A pacifist, she said, when it was not acceptable to be so.

  Something I understand only too well!

  Blessed are the peacemakers… she said.

  Indeed.

  Abe-san’s translation was quite charming and childlike, she said. It moved me deeply.

  I don’t suppose, I said, the poem was The Pasture?

  Yes! she said, clapping her hands.

  I recited the first verse.

  I’m going out to clean the pasture spring;

  I’ll only stop to rake the leaves away

  (And wait to watch the water clear, I may):

  I shan’t be gone long.—You come too.

  She continued, spoke the second verse, her voice confident and with an innate musicality.

  I’m going out to fetch the little calf

  That’s standing by the mother. It’s so young,

  It totters when she licks it with her tongue.

  I shan’t be gone long.—You come too.

  It’s quite remarkable, I said. In one volume of my haiku translations I quoted that very poem in its entirety. I believe I said the poem expresses almost the whole meaning of human life, and with it the nature of haiku.

  That is very beautiful.

  We see these things, the pasture spring and the water clearing, the cow and her calf, and we feel fulfilled.

  It’s so vivid.

  But that’s not the whole story. The poem reaches out to humanity, to you, to the reader, to everyone. You come too.

  Yes, she said. You come too!

  She turned and smiled at the Crown Prince who smiled back at her, clearly captivated.

  Whatever forces of reaction and conservatism might be arrayed against this young woman, whatever she might have to endure, I felt in that moment she would prevail.

  I recall a little interlude from this time – a music recital at the palace. I took some pride (another besetting sin, I know) in the knowledge that the Crown Prince had followed my advice and learned a musical instrument. Quietly and without fuss he had been taking lessons on the cello. I had never heard him play but was sure he must have acquired a level of competency at least. When he set his mind on something, his concentration was one-pointed.

  I understood his Michiko-san was an accomplished pianist and I imagined he had arranged the evening for her sake. I had no expectation, felt rather like a parent attending a school concert.

  A little printed invitation card explained they would perform a short composition by Faure, Sicilenne. I was not familiar with it but assumed it would be a kind of dance, light and melodic, sweet to the point of sentimentality. I resolved to be uncritical, to listen, as it were, with an open heart and not a closed mind. I sat upright, ready. But I was completely unprepared for how the music affected me. Nor was it just the music, it was the very fact of these two young people playing it. The whole feeling of the piece was autumnal, bittersweet, imbued with a sense of what they called mono na aware, the pathos, the touchingness of things. And that was rendered all the more poignant by its contrast to the very youthfulness of the performers, the immense weight of expectation on them, the role they were to assume, their place in history. And yet, and yet, they were still just this young couple, vulnerable in their humanity, trying their best to express something timeless and beautiful and true. It affected me deeply and I was grateful to have a large handkerchief with which to blow my nose and, discreetly, dab away my tears.

  After the royal wedding there were grand celebrations and receptions, great state occasions in their own right, attended by visiting royalty and heads of state, grandees and dignitaries of every hue. Then there was a smaller gathering, described as intimate and attended by a mere two hundred guests of the Crown Prince and Princess Michiko – former tutors, chamberlains, family friends and business associates.

  The Crown Prince had told me I was one of only three foreigners invited to the reception, and I was happy to hear that one of the others was to be Elizabeth, Mrs Vining. She had sent me a note the year before, saying she was back in Japan, briefly, for a literary conference organised by PEN International, where she had been thrilled to meet some of the delegates, particularly Steven Spender, John Steinbeck and Yasunari Kawabata, declaring Kawabata to be, in her words, easily the most colourful and appealing of all those in attendance. Kawabata was close to sixty, and she described him as a wisp of a man with huge eyes and a shock of thick grey hair. She said he seemed like a deer, tentatively emerging from the forest.

  Reading Mrs Vining’s letter, I was happy to be reminded of her unabashed enthusiasms, her largeness of heart and sheer goodness. I was very much looking forward to meeting her again.

  We found ourselves standing together at the reception, waiting in line to be presented to our royal Host and Hostess, and she greeted me with great warmth, said I hadn’t changed a bit in the seven years since we’d met.

  I said she was too kind, and that there was definitely rather more of me these days.

  For my part, I added, I was happy to find her much as I remembered her, but even more so.

  She seemed to have grown into herself, become who she was – charming, gracious, composed, and still with that twinkle of humour in the eye.

  When the royal couple entered the great hall they made their way along the line of guests waiting to be presented, pausing briefly with each one, exchanging a greeting, a word of thanks, and moving on.

  Elizabeth said to me, sotto voce, that the poor dears must be exhausted from all that deep bowing.

  Indeed, I said, it must be quite strenuous. I also knew that earlier in the day they had attended an outdoor rally in the drizzling rain, listened to interminable speeches and responded to the thousand-strong crowd shouting Banzai! at them.

  When they reached us, the Prince and Princess stepped forward and shook hands with us, nodding and smiling. They said they were delighted we could be there.

  I said we knew the day must have been a tiring one. One thousand Banzais and two hundred deep bows were no joke.

  The Princess smiled and the Crown Prince laughed, was immediately the young boy I had taught all these years.

  It is good to see you both! he said, and they continued along the line.

  Elizabeth nudged me.

  I see you have not lost your sense of humour, she said.

  I can think of nothing worse, I said. That would indeed be hell.

  Lasciate ogni speranza…

  Dear Mrs Vining, dear Elizabeth. She had prayed for the young Crown Prince, prayed that she herself be a worthy teacher. She had prayed that he might be a latter-day Prince Shotoku, a bringer of unity and peace, prayed that he would lead his country in its hour of need.

  Bless this child to whom one day will come great responsibility. Endow his teachers with wisdom and courage and grant that we may serve his best development…

  Amen.

  12

  BARBARIC YAWP

  There is a verse by Whitman I have on my office wall, beside a sharp, jagged drawing of a crane by Mu Ch’i.

  I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable.

  I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world..

  If I were ever to gather these scribbled pages together and publish them as a volume, I might consider that as a title.

  My Barbaric Yawp, by the untranslatable RH Blyth.

  The best things are inexpressible.

  The untranslatable words are good.

  I shall continue writing these pages as long as I keep my faculties intact.

  Who wrote that? JD Salinger, I think. Yes, in his short story. For Esme with Love and Squalor.

  Keep my f-a-c-u-l-t-i-e-s intact.

  Mr Salinger, who told his readers about me.

  There was the young American woman who tracked me down at Gakushuin, asked if she could interview me. She was writing a paper, or a dissertation, or a thesis, on Vedanta and Zen in the work of JD Salinger. She happened to be in Tokyo and asked if we might meet.

  Why not?

  She quoted to me a passage from Salinger’s novel Frannie and Zooey – a passage I noticed she had underlined.

  ‘Bore that I am, I mentioned R. H. Blyth’s definition of sentimentality: that we are being sentimental when we give to a thing more tenderness than God gives to it.’