ABSTRACT
Hirohito, chief of a contemporary state, is also its high priest. In that little city within a city where the Emperor dwells is a massive temple-like structure called the Shinkaden. As dusk falls on the last Monday of November each year sacred fires of pine logs are lit in iron braziers around the courtyard. On the appointed date in 1940 the smoky light of the fires flickered on the handsome features of Prince Konoye as he crossed the courtyard and slowly climbed the steep old steps, preceded by a priest who showed him to his place. The hall was filled with the soft glow of paper lanterns. At the head of the hall facing the entrance a Shinto altar was dressed and ready. The court musicians sat on the floor, voluminously robed in scarlet cloaks and pointed headdresses, and fingered their archaic instruments. Ladies of the court in antique white costumes hovered near the altar. High dignitaries were silently marshaled to their places, the Emperor’s youngest brother, Prince Mikasa, a brown, sturdy young soldier, at their head. Prince Saijo, an old man with an ascetic priestly face, stepped in front of the altar and intoned a Shinto prayer. No one understood a word of it; it had been composed perhaps a thousand years ago, perhaps
more; the language was no longer intelligible; even the ideas could only have been understood by students of primitive beliefs.
