People, Aug. 30, 1954

Names make news. Last week these names made this news:

Speaking to the American Bar Association in Chicago, Joseph N. Welch, former special counsel for the Army in its squabble with Senator Joseph McCarthy, reflected on his depressing sojourn in Washington. “The two simple emotions I observed at the capital were fear and hate, fanned to a white heat,” said he. “It was frightening to me . . .A steady diet of this . . . will destroy us.” Meanwhile, Tennessee’s Ray Jenkins, special committee counsel at the long-winded hearings, discovered that he had popped up as Y. Y. Cragnose, a bumpy-beaked character in Cartoonist Al Capp’s Li’l Abner. “Cragnose is uglier than I am,” rasped Jenkins. “But I’ve been getting plenty of fan mail … I do wish he’d refine that face a bit.”

Appearing in a Swiss court for a divorce hearing, glamorous Socialite Joanne Connelly Sweeny Patiño, 23, told a sympathetic judge that her husband, Bolivian Tin Heir Jaime Ortiz-Patiño, was “a real sadist, who often beat me.” Matter of fact, complained Joanne without further explanation, things really got rough on the Isle of Capri: “On our honeymoon he beat me so much I had a miscarriage.”

Monte Carlo’s summer season reached a social crescendo with an anti-polio March of Francs party featuring two hours of husky-throated songs by Marlene Dietrich. But Marlene seemed almost an anticlimax to Poet Jean Cocteau’s freshly penned introduction, eloquently recited by French Cinemactor Jean Marais: “Your name begins with a caress and ends with a whiplash. You wear feathers and furs which seem to be part of your body like the furs of beasts and the feathers of birds . . . There comes to us, in full sail, a frigate, a prow’s figurehead, a Chinese fish, a lyre bird, unbelievable and marvelous.”

London’s Daily Express predicted that the highlight of Princess Margaret’s 24th-birthday party, an intimate royal affair at Balmoral Castle, would be an announcement of her engagement to the Honorable Colin Christopher Paget Tennant, 27, heir to a barony and a multimillion-dollar chemical fortune. With gossipists all agog, the Express’s guess proved a total fizzle. Arriving at Balmoral, young

Tennant snapped: “I’m sick and tired of being followed!” A news blackout followed. Across the moat of privacy, reporters had Slim pickings: The only tidings that drifted out from the inner sanctum: a picnic had been called off because of rain—and U.S. Crooner Eddie Fisher had sent the princess a special recording of Happy Birthday to You.

Two old buddies, Army Private G. (for Gerard) David Schine and Roy M. Cohn, hopped off a plane at Newark Airport, denied that they had planned to be fellow travelers, flatly turned down photographers’ requests for a cozy picture.

Millionairess Gloria Vanderbilt Stokowski, 30, wife of sexagenarian Conductor Leopold Stokowski and self-admitted washout as an amateur actress at 16, starred before a sellout audience at Pennsylvania’s Pocono Playhouse as the princess in Ferenc Molnar’s The Swan. Consensus of the critics: “Nerveless poise.” With Stoky’s blessing, Gloria, mother of two and a painter of some commendable abstractions, suddenly found herself “enthusiastic about making the stage a career.”

Cinemactor Franchot Tone, 49, whose Phi Beta Kappa key failed to ward off the rude fisticuffs of husky Cinemug Tom Neal in their brawl over the fickle favors of Cineminx Barbara Payton three years ago, settled out of court with Lloyds of London, accepted $17,500 insurance for his clobbering. In reply to Tone’s original $63,666,66 suit, Lloyds claimed, in effect, that he had displayed indiscreet valor by provoking Neal, then by sticking his hitherto unmarred face in the way of Big Tom’s flying knuckles.

Still without a divorce from Crooner Frank Sinatra, Cinemactress Ava Gardner left Nevada, where she had waited out her six-week legal residency stint, and rushed to Havana’s Hotel Nacional, where she and Frankie had honeymooned so long ago. This time she registered as Miss Anne Clarke and maid, later went fishing with her old friend, Author Ernest Hemingway, hooked a twelve-pounder, while Papa caught nothing.

In Rome, Egypt’s ex-King Farouk interrupted his leering and prancing long enough to roll into a fashionable nightclub, where he drew up a chair beside an old Manhattan cabaret songstress named Spivy, bellowed duets with her for an hour and topped off the act with a Swiss yodeling version of Don’t Fence Me In. Spivy’s impression of Farouk’s yodeling: “Squeaking in a high falsetto.”