• U.S.

People, Dec. 3, 1973

4 minute read

It has not been long since Superpatriot John Wayne, 66, recorded a pep talk for his countrymen called America, Why I Love Her. Among the numbers was The Good Things, a panegyric to the mundane virtues of American life: “A fireman who climbs a tree and sets a little kitten free,” and, of course, the “men who love their wives.” It turns out that Wayne’s memory of the good things is faulty. His third wife Pilar, 45, will not, after all, be the girl with whom he rides into the sunset, because after 19 years of marriage and three children, the Waynes have split up.

It was just a small family celebration. Caroline Kennedy, home for Thanksgiving, was due to turn 16 on Nov. 27, and her brother John was 13 on Nov. 25. Together they shared a quiet party before Caroline returned to her boarding school in Concord, Mass. For Caroline, the 27th also marks a changing of the guard. Congress provided Secret Service surveillance only until her 16th birthday, but her mother, Mrs. Aristotle Onassis, says that Caroline “will always have ample protection.”

His catnip-to-the-ladies’ performance as Henry Higgins in My Fair Lady suggested that a middle-aged professor could have sex appeal. So it was only fitting that the profession should finally award Rex Harrison, 65, an academic degree, a Doctorate of Humane Letters from Boston University. But Rex is not the only performer-scholar in the family. In London, Granddaughter Cathy Harrison, 14, is piling up theatrical credits, even as she studies for school exams. Cathy has appeared in two movies, including Robert Altman’s Images, and in a TV drama series. Now, she says, “I’d like to do a play.” Father Noel Harrison, himself an actor, is encouraging. And Grandfather Rex, founder of yet another British theatrical dynasty, says, “I am delighted.”

“It calls up the image of Manhattan with two vertical wave patterns, making one think of the Hudson and East Rivers, while the varied vertical projections in between evoke the silhouetted figures of the Manhattan scape.” So said brilliant, Kiev-born Louise Nevelson, 73, doyenne of American sculptors, as she supervised the assembling of her splendid gift to the city in which she has lived for 53 years: Night Presence IV, a 22½-ft.-high, 4½-ton rusty steel abstraction.

Wearing a long, chinchilla-trimmed orange paisley coat, velvet jockey cap and sturdy black lace-ups, Nevelson was a little doubtful about the location of her work among the luxury apartment houses of upper Park Avenue. Some passers-by agreed with her, though not for the same reason. “It’s hideous!” exclaimed a matron only to be overruled by a threeyear-old completely attuned to Nevelson’s wave length. “It isn’t the Statue of Liberty,” he cried. “What’s it called?”

Prince Charles, 25, will one day rule all Britain. In the meantime, as Duke of Cornwall he busies himself on a smaller scale, cementing feudal relations with the tenants who live on his extensive Cornwall demesnes. Reviving a ceremony last performed in 1937 by his grandfather, King George VI, Charles visited his fief to claim tribute: a load of firewood, a goatskin cloak, a pound of pepper, gilt spurs, a hunting bow, a salmon spear, a pair of white gauntlets, two greyhounds, a pound of herbs and 100 old shillings. But he left without claiming one of a feudal lord’s most ancient rights: the hand in marriage of any one of his tenants’ daughters. Instead, Charles flew off to the Duke of Wellington’s Granada estate for a spot of partridge shooting accompanied by the daughter of the house and reportedly one of his favorite birds, Lady Jane Wellesley.

A carriage fit for a king used to be designed like a London taxicab to permit a properly attired gentleman to enter and exit without having to remove his top hat. In Tokyo on an unofficial visit, Tonga’s jovial giant of a monarch, Tau-fa’ahau Tupou IV, 55, was made painfully aware of how times have changed. The King (6 ft. 3 in., 300 lbs.-plus) was hard-pressed to squeeze into Emperor Hirohito’s limousine even without a topper. Certain other diplomatic chores were equally harrowing. The King just could not espouse the country’s little cars, mainly because he could hardly climb into one, let alone out.

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