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In London, J. B. Priestley heard that an overenthusiastic admirer, after reading that Priestley "longed for the sun and soil of Arizona," was air-expressing him a shoe box full of the state's soil. Grumbled the novelist: "I would have preferred citrus fruit."
After an attack of sciatica cut short his U.S. concert tour, Britain's explosive Sir Thomas Beecham flew home to London where he was trundled through customs in a wheelchair. His plans? Said Lady Beecham to reporters: "He's going to do what I tell him for a change." Fumed Sir Thomas: "I've always done what she tells me. Marriage is one of the subtler forms of tyranny—imponderable but effective."
In Madrid, the Duchess of Valencia, shapely, 36-year-old monarchist critic of Franco, suggested that her country's diplomatic corps needs a woman's touch: "I would not be surprised if Stalin's trouble is the lack of feminine influence over him. I think a woman might be able to accomplish far more with him than the Western statesmen have been able to do. I wish I could be Spanish Ambassador in Moscow . . . If I were Spanish envoy in the United States, I would go fishing with President Truman . . ."
The Danish Foreign Office announced that it would officially protest the Hollywood story of Hans Christian Andersen starring jittery Comic Danny Kaye. The Copenhagen newspaper Politiken quickly added its support: "Reports from Hollywood indicate that the cobbler's son from Odense, Denmark, shall now be known to history as the singing and dancing hero from a $4,000,000 Technicolor show. Is it really permitted to distort the life of great men in such reckless manner?" Danny's considered opinion: "I think the people of Denmark will like the picture. I don't do any scat singing."
PERSONALITY
BEN HOGAN, the professional golfer, is a man of tremendous composure and no small talk. He has been known to go an entire 18 holes without once speaking to his caddy. A golfer playing with him just about has to hole out with a brassie from several hundred yards away before Hogan is moved to say, "Good shot." Other pros, the kind who get sick at their stomachs and take to Benzedrine during big tournaments, are not anxious to play in his threesome. His presence, silent and austere, makes them tense up and miss shots. The thing few people suspect is that Ben Hogan is twice as tense as any of them.
He is like a man plugged in on a busy switchboard. Lights keep blinking and flashing in Hogan's brain, carrying danger signals from his nerves and muscles. When the switchboard is really busy—as it will be on April 3 when Hogan plays in the Masters Tournament at Augusta, Ga.—he deliberately shifts himself into a state in which people blend into the landscape like so many trees or blades of grass. Opponents actually believe that he has learned how to control his heartbeat and regulate the flow of juices from his thyroid and adrenal glands.