Names make news. Last week these names made this news:

Cinemactress Maria (The Brothers Karamazov) Schell, arriving in Manhattan to promote her new movie, exuded a heady mixture of fluff and philosophy. A first-rate actress on screen and off, Maria, 32. parried most of the newsmen's thrusts with ease, sooner or later got her listeners into her own frame of reference. Her greatest vice at the moment, by her own confession: "Intensity." The cure she seeks: "Harmony. I want to find peace within myself and the world in which I live. I want to grow, not by design, but as the flower grows. Peace is art. Peace is when time doesn't matter as it passes by."

One of the most perilous honors in Scotland's academic world is election to the purely decorative post of Rector of the University of Glasgow. In a remarkable display of grace under fire, Britain's Home Secretary Richard Austen Butler last week was installed and violently decorated by fun-loving undergraduates. "By 1970," Rab Butler was telling some 2.000 roaring students, "Britain can expect to increase her wealth by no less than 41%." Then the fun began. While a jazz band blared and soot bombs burst in air, No. 2 Tory Butler plunged stoically onward with his nuclear-energy speech, wearing a wintry smile and, progressively, two ripe tomatoes, a ghoulish facial paste of flour and eggs, wreaths of toilet paper and, finally, foamy spray from a battery of fire extinguishers. Among the other casualties: a photographer kayoed by a huge cabbage featly thrown, a constable hurled through a plate-glass window, four exuberant students collared for what a magistrate called "sheer hooliganism." After the riot ended, Rector Butler headed back for tranquil old London, uttered nary a noise of complaint.

Some 550 ladies slogged through Washington, D.C.'s record snowfall (14 in.) to a luncheon where Lady Bird Johnson, wife of the Senate majority leader, got a "Togetherness Award," presented to her by pert Dancer Marge Champion. Lurking together in the background were the affair's cosponsors, McCall's magazine and the Hecht Co., the capital's big department-store chain. Among other women honored for exemplifying "togetherness" (defined by McCall's Editor and Publisher Otis Wiese as "our greatest natural resource"): Adele Rogers, wife of the Attorney General; Author Bonaro W. (Understanding Fear: in Ourselves and

Others) Overstreet; Maude Twining,

wife of the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff; Marjorie Elizabeth de Morgen-stierne, wife of the retired Norwegian ambassador (TIME, Jan. 6).

U.S. Ambassador to Italy James D. Zellerbach went to the Vatican, presented Pope Pius XII with 1957's George Washington Carver Memorial Institute Gold Award for the pontiff's "outstanding contribution to the betterment of race relations and human welfare." (1956 winner: D wight D. Eisenhower.) Said His Holiness: "It is not to our humble person this award is directed, but to truth and charity, whose defense is our mission."

Boarding an England-bound ship in Manhattan with wife Diana, fiddling Virtuoso Yehudi Menuhin did some fancy headwork to avoid strain on his arms and precious hands, marched to his stateroom while expertly balancing atop his cap a case containing his two Stradivarius violins. An old hand at trick calisthenics, Menuhin often stands on his head, Yoga-style, to improve his circulation and cerebration. On his forthcoming world tour, he has no plans for giving any concerts upside down.

The romance between Sweden's stately (5 ft. II in.) Princess Margaretha, 23, and Britain's Robin Douglas-Home, 25, a six-footer who abandoned his $124-a-week efforts as a jazz piano player and advertising copywriter (TIME, May 20) to turn gentleman printer, took a more romantic turn. Stockholm's royal palace, previously cool to the match, caved in significantly by announcing that blond-locked Douglas-Home will soon come to Sweden, study his new trade by day and the princess by evening. Belowstairs rumors from the palace left little doubt that Sweden's King Gustaf VI, Margaretha's grandfather, is reconciled to an imminent engagement.

Limping toward Broadway with a string of bad notices tied to its tale was a play titled The Master of Thornfield, adapted from Charlotte Bronte's Jane Eyre by none other than artsy-craftsy A. & P. Heir Huntington Hartford. The play's loudest critic was its star, roistering Cinemactor Errol Flynn. Oblivious to the feelings of Playwright Hartford, his sometime buddy, Flynn, who had not bothered with memorizing all of the script, told three Cincinnati drama critics (after the work's initial debacle in Detroit) that Master was just as bad as they proclaimed. Said Errol: "I can't do much with the way it's written." Cheerfully predicting that about $200,000 will be lost on the artless vehicle, Flynn quit his role at week's end, planned to forget the whole unhappy thing by fleeing to French Equatorial Africa to make a movie.

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