Prothalamion

There's nothing like a wedding in the family. In Britain last week it seemed as if everyone was as busy as a bridesmaid, preparing to marry off the Princess this month. Each one had his own job. Dr. William McKie, the organist at Westminster Abbey, had a special motet to compose for the ceremony. Sir Arnold Bax, Master of the King's Musick, was working out three trumpet fanfares. Painters were sprucing up Buckingham Palace, which still showed the ravages of war. Electricians were studying ways & means to bathe The Mall with light on the great night.

In nearby St. James's Palace the wedding presents were being laid out and catalogued. Among them were a set of Peking carpets from British expatriates in China, a dressing case fitted in tortoise shell from the city of Paris, twelve wedding cakes from Imperial outposts, some rubies from Burma and a silk nightdress from one Mrs. Clementine Hager of the U.S.

Three Sisters & a Sergeant. In line with announcements that street clothes were to be worn at the ceremony, London's jewelers were busy converting tiaras into street-wear clips and brooches, London's tailors were peering into their darkest shelves because of a shortage of cashmere for striped trousering. On all sides would-be wedding guests were maneuvering for one of the precious invitations being addressed by a corps of Palace secretaries. Palace authorities refused to name the 2,000-odd included on the list. A few omissions were known: Elizabeth's uncle, the Duke of Windsor, and his Duchess, for instance, and Philip's three sisters, whose princeling husbands were all good Germans throughout the war.

For the 640 M.P.s there would be 50 "pavement tickets" distributed by ballot, permitting a few lucky members to stand outside New Palace Yard, but John Donnelly, a sergeant major of the Royal Artillery, was assured of a seat in the Abbey to represent his regiment, the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders, of which Elizabeth is colonel-in-chief.

End to Drabness. Even those who had no hope of getting a bid to the wedding were busily concerned over it. A correspondent to the Times fretted over the uniforms of the Household Cavalry chosen to escort the bride. "May we hope," he wrote, "to see the Guards again in scarlet and bearskins, and our hearts be rejoiced by the beginning of the end, not of austerity which we must endure, but of drabness."

For the benefit of other interested observers, London's papers printed every detail of the wedding plans as they were announced. Even in New York the British Information Service was kept busy answering questions. "Yes," they told one questioner, "the wedding will be paid for in the usual fashion. The bridegroom will take care of the church expenses. The reception will be paid for by the King."

A Twisted Knee. Meanwhile, in spite of distractions, the bride had to go on being a princess. It was a big week for Elizabeth. She had found herself a new home, Windlesham Moor in Surrey, to take the place of burned-out Sunninghill Park, and she and Queen Mary spent several mornings rummaging in antique shops for likely furniture.

On Tuesday, for the first time in her life alone in her own glass coach, she rode to Westminster to open Parliament with her father and mother. His Majesty's Government and Loyal Opposition joined forces to wish her luck and congratulate her on her "unerring graciousness." Communist William Gallacher refused to join the motion. "I cannot forget," he said, "that on the day this engagement was announced, thousands of Greek citizens were thrown into the prison camps of the reactionary Royalist Greek Government," but he was soon shouted down with cries of "sit down."

The thing that came closest to spoiling that day was the news that Philip had managed to turn over in his car on a skiddy corner on the road from Chippenham. He escaped with only a twisted knee. Soon afterward the Palace announced that the couple will divide their honeymoon between Birkhall, near Balmoral Castle, and Earl Mountbatten's Hampshire estate, Broadlands.

Three Swatches. On Friday night Lord Beaverbrook's Evening Standard, which had spurned the vows of secrecy imposed on every other paper, printed a picture purporting to be Elizabeth's wedding dress. It showed only three vague swatches of material draped over a couch, leaving a breathless public in no way wiser, but Elizabeth determined to tighten security measures even further.

A far more revealing forecast on her trousseau came from an authority close to the bride herself. "The princesses," she said, "naturally incline to follow traditional trends. If for any .reason one of them got the idea she'd like a skirt shorter or longer than was considered in the best taste, I am sure the Queen would scotch it."

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