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As the sun set on the big Connecticut farmhouse, grey-haired Mama Miller and her balding husband Isidore sat on the porch and talked about "the children." "I made a chicken," fretted Mama, a Brooklyn housewife. "I wish I knew whether they're coming home, so I would know how much potatoes to make." Papa, a retired cloak-and-suiter, consoled her: "Don't worry. I don't think they've forgotten us." At 9:30 p.m., the children returned to Roxbury. To nobody's surprise, Pulitzer Prizewinning Playwright Arthur (Death of a Salesman) Miller, 40, and Cinemactress Marilyn Monroe, 30, had slipped across the nearby New York State line and got married in suburban White Plains. The day had been marred by a tragic interlude: Russian Princess Mara Scherbatoff, 48, New York bureau chief of France's weekly Paris Match, was killed when her car, pursuing the lovers down a hairpin road, rammed a tree. But now, at Playwright Miller's rural retreat, joy was unbounded. Mama Miller hauled out her chicken and everybody dug into the wedding feast. In the big cities the headlines were beginning to roar the news, OUR MAN KISSED THE BRIDE, brayed the New York Post in a Page-One banner. "It's the happiest meal I've ever eaten!" bubbled Marilyn. She impulsively bussed Arthur Miller, who husked: "It couldn't be better. We are married, and now the world can go back to what it was doing." At week's end, Playwright Miller had six more days in which to name his onetime Red associates for the House UnAmerican Activities Committee or risk not getting a passport for an English honeymoon with Marilyn. Optimistically, he had already leased a sumptuous love nest in London's suburbs.
Legging down a Hollywood report that the estranged wife of Actor Edward G. (The Middle of the Night) Robinson has formally accused him of shacking up with a brunette in his Manhattan penthouse, New York Daily Newsman Howard Wantuch made a surprise call at Robinson's aerie. To Wantuch's own surprise, the elevator disgorged him, unannounced, smack in the middle of the tough guy's living room. Then in strolled the doll, Fashion Designer Jane Adler, 42, named in Gladys Robinson's complaint. As the brunette swiftly exited, Actor Robinson, 62, bounced up at stage center, reached for no shoulder-holstered gat, but rasped: "Do you think it's right to walk in on people like this?" Apologizing, Newshawk Wantuch, his tabloid fodder virtually in the hopper, edged back for the elevator amidst running dialogue with Robinson, whose 29-year marriage was never more on the rocks. Robinson: "Are you married?" Wantuch: "Yes." Robinson: "First' marriage?" Wantuch (uneasily): "Yes. Twenty years." Robinson (his lip curling with a quiver): "Keep it that way!" Curtain.