People, Jul. 6, 1959

Britain’s Commie-loving Dr. Hewlett Johnson, 85, better known as the Red Dean of Canterbury, who has swallowed all sorts of pink pap in his time, disclosed that he is now taking it subcutaneously. Hewlett’s wife Nowell Mary, 53, has been injecting him with Substance H3, a “youth serum” containing novocain and unspecified acids, developed by the dean’s good friend, Dr. Anna (“Age is an illness; age is curable”) Asian, at her rejuvenation clinic in Bucharest. He is now running on a three-month supply of the stuff that he brought from Rumania.

Britain’s immaculate Tailor and Cutter Magazine surveyed the international scene, issued a list of the world’s best-dressed males. Among them: Yugoslavia’s Marshal Tito (“the ritziest looking dictator in the world”), Richard Nixon (“a neat line between the wigwag shapes of U.S. drape and the ludicrously tight togs of U.S. Ivy Leaguers”), durable Hoofer Fred Astaire (“one of the few Americans who can wear a suit of tails”), Cinemactor Rex Harrison (“the best British answer to the Italian look”), Douglas Fairbanks Jr. (“British taste and American imagination”), Plutocrat Nubar Gulbenkian (“one of the few millionaires who dress like millionaires”).

Drafted into a road race for glamorous types who sped for publicity from Rome to Sicily, bosomy Cinemactress Anita Ekberg teamed up with willing Italian Cinemactor Antonio Gerini, set forth in her blue Lancia Flaminia roadster. In the southern town of Castrovillari, the couple tooled abreast of a human roadblock-a group of Anita’s male partisans, who screamed, pounded on the car and tried to touch her in order to make sure that she was real. Rattled Driver Gerini tried to bulldoze his way through the idolaters, succeeded in setting off a stampede, gently bowling over a half-dozen fans. Barefooted and almost heat-prostrated, Anita took advantage of the excitement to slump dramatically into a semicoma.

Whooping it up through most of the night on a train westbound from Chicago, Ike’s grandson, David Eisenhower, n, and ten other lads played cards (David insisted that it was poker), resolutely fought off sleep. Arriving in Denver in the charge of a Secret Serviceman, David shouldered his heavy duffel bag, visited his ailing great-grandmother Elivera Doud, then rejoined his pals for a ride to Skyline Ranch, a boys’ camp where he will rough it for five weeks.

Word sifted from the State Department that Career Diplomat Charles E. T. (“Chip”) Bohlen, 54, longtime (1950-57) Russian-speaking U.S. Ambassador to the U.S.S.R., and since then Ambassador to the Philippines, may soon go back to Washington, become top adviser of State’s brand-new Soviet-affairs desk.

Ill lay: Cinemactress Marilyn Monroe, 33, in a Manhattan hospital after “corrective surgery,” presumably aimed at readying her for long-delayed motherhood; Trumpeter Louis (“Satchmo”) Armstrong, 59, bedded in Spoleto, Italy with pneumonia aggravated by “chronic emphysema” (overstretched lung tissues) ; Presidential Press Secretary James

Campbell Hagerty, 50, in the VIP wing of Walter Reed Army Medical Center for an emergency appendectomy; Wyoming’s Democratic Senator Joseph C. O’Mahoney, 74, laid up near by in Bethesda Naval Hospital, partially paralyzed by a “mild stroke” suffered soon after he had cast a post-midnight vote against the confirmation of Lewis Strauss as Secretary of Commerce.

With all the incorruptibility to be expected of a millionaire in politics, New York’s wavy-locked Republican Governor Nelson Rockefeller decreed that state aides must henceforth shun freeloading. Among the forbidden goodies: passes to horse races, prize fights and other gravy-train offerings that could compromise an honest civil servant’s amateur standing. Just to prove his point, Rockefeller, after returning some free season racetrack passes to the State Racing Commission, bought $100 ringside tickets for the Patterson-Johansson world heavyweight boxing title bout (see SPORT).

The tiny (3½ miles long) English Channel island of Sark and its 367 residents writhe under the ironhanded sway of Mrs. Sibyl Hathaway, the austere, seventyish, Dame of Sark. When Britain’s Princess Margaret paid a social call on Dame Sibyl last week, an almost unprecedented invitation bade all the islanders to come to a garden party at the Dame’s Georgian manor. But the bids riled many Sarkians by the Dame’s imperious condition: nobody could leave until 45 minutes after Margaret had departed. Presumably, this precaution would safeguard Margaret’s person. Many islanders decided to let Dame Sibyl know just how they feel about her uppity ways. Almost half of them boycotted the party, not to affront Margaret but to shame the Dame.