People: Tourist in Gaiters

The Archbishop of Canterbury had the time of his life in a whirlwind one-month, 10,000-mile U.S.-Canada tour, on which he visited the White House, got honorary degrees from Columbia, Princeton and the University of Pennsylvania, estimated that his public utterances had averaged 1.95 per diem. Archiepiscopal purpose: to get acquainted with the clergy of the Anglican Communion in Canada and the U.S. Canada and the U.S. also got to know something of the long-jawed, gaitered Primate. In Philadelphia, a news photographer caught him getting into his canonicals (see cut); the London Sunday Dispatch gleefully reprinted the shot, captioned it “A Picture We Never Thought We Should See!” A high point of his trip: roaring through a city (“perhaps I had better not say which”) at 80 m.p.h. with police escort (“which thrills me to the marrow”).

Other Cantuarisms:

¶ On education—”Universities have lost their synthesizing power, [provide] nothing but fragments of knowledge.”

¶ On wearing gaiters—”For the very obvious and excellent reason that two centuries ago my predecessors as bishops did all their work on horseback … I still, naturally, wear gaiters.”

¶ On Anglo-American relations—”It is unnecessary to talk about them. Friends do not discuss their relations with one another.”

Legal Complications

Negley Parson, onetime foreign correspondent, exhibitionist autobiographer (The Way of a Transgressor), took time out from novel writing for a small transgression in North Devon, England. A constable caught him driving drunkenly through Wollacombe, hauled him into court. Cost: £25, license suspended for a year. But Author Farson found it all rather pleasant. “They were awfully nice to me,” said he. “The constable took me to the police station and he, the police inspector, their two wives and I all had tea together.”

Jack Doyle, lady-killing Irish ex-heavyweight whose U.S. career included few ring victories but two marriages to cinema starlets, one engagement to Auto Heiress Delphine Dodge, was arrested for trying his left hook on a lady in Dublin. She went down for a short count, whereupon Jack helped her up, then let her have another one. Next day in court he agreed to a ten-bob fine, but announced with injured dignity: “There is no law in the world to prevent me getting drunk every night if I behave myself!”

Byron (“Whizzer”) White, All-America halfback, Rhodes scholar and Navy hero, who forsook professional football’s enticements ($15,000 a season) to study law, got the job most coveted by fledgling barristers. The job: clerk to Fred M. Vinson, Chief Justice of the U.S.

New Faces

Viveca Lindfors, the Swedish Royal Dramatic Academy’s latest gift toHollywood (others: Garbo, Bergman, Signe Hasso), started work on her first picture and first starring role, Night unto Night. She also posed prettily in Hollywood’s favorite robe, which her publicists explained she would wear on the screen.

Margaret Truman, after a Missouri summer, was getting ready for some profile flashing in nosy Washington. Capital gossip had it that the President’s daughter had been going in for some fancy nose remodeling. No such thing, said the White House.

Groucho Marx, cigar-waving, mustachioed youngest of the Marx Brothers trio, was about to play it solo. In his next movie, Copacabana, he would appear sans cigar, sans mustache, sans brothers.

Theodore G. Bilbo, able to spout a few words after a mouth operation, lost no time in spreading a piece of bad news. Now that it has been “reamed out,” said he, “I’ve got more mouth than ever.”

Scribblers

Evelyn Waugh, Britain’s best-selling satirist of Britain’s erstwhile smart set, looked ahead to dictatorship of the British proletariat, submitted aplan in September’s Town & ountry for the humane putting out to pasture of the British upper classes. Suggested Novelist Waugh:set aside a series of “native reservations” where they might pursue theirquaint ways undisturbed and where well-paying tourists could come and stare, watch them ride to hounds, stroll through trim gardens. “They should have their own courts where such . . . tribal customs as the open administration of a known law, trial by jury, nonpolitical judges . . . and so on, should be observed.”

Upton Sinclair, indefatigable Socialist novelist and interminable chronicler of the ubiquitous Lanny Budd, reached an unweary 68, busily at work on book No. 73. “For the sake of propaganda,” he admitted in his garage-studio in Monrovia, Calif., “I have sacrificed practically all my standing and influence as a man of letter.” But onetime gubernatorial candidate Sinclair was tired of active politics: “I prefer getting alone and reading about world events to meeting anybody. I naturally don’t see people. I mean I don’t notice their eyes and hair.”

Pablo Picasso’s art, as it does occasionally, overflowed into verse. In his latest poem, appearing in the French magazine Fontaine, he seemed to be trying to fill the gap left by the death of his friend Gertrude Stein. Wrote Picasso: “Caramel which burns, caramel which embraces, which cuts and clings, caramel which pricks and pinches, caramel. . ..” Several pages later, Poet Picasso was still munching on caramel.

Otto Dietrich, Hitler’s personal press stooge and author of With Hitler to Power, was distributing the manuscript of his second book around a British internment camp. Title: With Hitler to .Rwm. “Author’s royalty per reading: two cigarets.

At Home Abroad

Axel Wenner-Gren, Sweden’s leading industrialist, and a longtime big black name on the now defunct U.S. wartime blacklist, turned up in Manhattan en route to Stockholm from Mexico City. He had received an impulsive vote of confidence, said he, from Will Hays, Hollywood’s ex-conscience. Reported Wenner-Gren: Hays spotted him on Fifth Avenue, rushed up, stripped off his coat, said melodramatically: “We always believed in you. You can have my shirt if you want it.”

Barbara Mutton, who gave her London mansion to the U.S. as an ambassadorial residence (TiME, Aug. 12), had her dream house at last—a $75,000 palace in the Casbah of Tangier, “right out of the Arabian Nights.” The dime-store heiress, sporting a bandaged knee (sleepwalking accident), was all excited about her purchase. “I inherit six servants,” she gushed, “I think it’s all too sweet for words. . . . I’ve always wanted to live like an Arab.”