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

The spit-and-polish commandant of the U.S. Marine Corps. General Lemuel C. Shepherd Jr., sourly noted the uniformed posteriors of some of his men, ordered all Marine commanders to take "immediate steps" about "the trousers too short and too tight in the seat."

While Cinemactor Marlon (Desiree) Brando was holed up in Italy trying to escape the "persecution" of newsmen, his fiancee, onetime Artists' Model Josane Mariani-Berenger, 20, just before taking off from Paris for New York, submitted to some persecution and sounded a trifle hazy about the direction their idyl will now take. "I know I am going to start a new life with the help of Marlon, and it will be different from what I have done so far," burbled she. "I hope to be in my first movie along with Marlon. We are supposed to be married around next June."

Voters in Madison. Wis. agreed--15,169 to 13,885--to authorize the city to hire cranky old (85) Architect Frank Lloyd Wright to design a municipal auditorium and civic center. Chortled Wright, whose unorthodox and costly brainchildren of the past had set the city's officials to view him with alarm: "The people of Madison have demonstrated that politics isn't all."

Back in Manhattan for the second time this autumn, Japan's peppery Premier Shigeru Yoshida, taking time off from the rough and tumble of Japanese politics to make a good-will tour, hurried to the Waldorf-Astoria suite of General Douglas MacArthur, whom he had not seen since the general was relieved of his Far Eastern command job in 1951. Before retiring for a private, hour-long chat, the two posed beamingly for photographers, whom MacArthur told to caption their pictures: "Two old friends." This week Yoshida's plans called for a mission to Washington, where he was expected to hold out his hand for friendship, economic aid and better tariff breaks for Japan.

In Oslo to accept his 1952 Nobel Peace Prize, Dr. Albert Schweitzer, 79, saintly medical missionary of French Equatorial Africa, stood in a shiny old black suit and eloquently pointed a way to peace for distinguished listeners, including Norway's King Haakon VII. His message: man can abolish war only through a revival of the same ethical spirit which lifted Europe from the Dark Ages. Said Schweitzer: "Man has become a superman . . . because he not only disposes of innate physical forces, but because he is in command, thanks to the conquests of science and technique, of latent forces in nature . . . The superman, in the measure that his power increases, becomes himself poorer and poorer. In order to avoid [atomic] destruction, he is obliged to hide himself underground like the beasts of the fields . . . [Lacking] superhuman reason . . . the more we become supermen, the more we become inhuman." Later, Schweitzer mentioned his plan to put all of his prize money ($33,149) into his hospital establishment at Lambarene, the jungle town that is his home. But, said selfless Albert Schweitzer, more money is still needed. That was hint enough for Oslo's newspapers. In three days of appeals, they raised nearly $35,000 from Norwegian donors.

Britain's Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother, in the second week of her North American visit, rubbernecked like any commoner in New York City. Late in her Manhattan stay, she suddenly found herself being treated with uncertain informality by the three-to-five-year-olds at an experimental day-care center. On her arrival at the center, bystanding neighborhood ragamoppets applauded her dutifully. Inside, most of the children were shy in the royal presence. But one little boy, after conking a classmate with a block as Her Majesty drew near, piped: "What's a queen?" At week's end the imperturbable Queen Mother flew down to Washington in President Eisenhower's plane, the Columbine, was cordially received on the White House steps by Ike and Mamie.

Crooner Dick Haymes, whose knack for bouncing between frying pans and fires makes him a sort of comic-opera King Lear, was saved in midflight, at least temporarily, by his lawyers, who got a court order barring the U.S. Government from immediately shipping him back to his native Argentina as an alien.

In London, Queen Elizabeth II's husband indicated that he prefers to be called Prince Philip, instructed that a medal bearing his likeness call him that instead of the Duke of Edinburgh.

While vacationing at Miami Beach with Missouri's Democratic Senator W. Stuart Symington and St. Louis's Mayor Ray Tucker, the St. Louis Cardinals' aging (33) Slugger Stan ("The Man") Musial sized himself up, announced that he hopes to play baseball for at least three more seasons. "In one of those three years I'd like to win another batting championship," said he. "That would be my seventh--a lucky number to retire on."

Actress Betsy von Furstenberg, 22, whose own theater manners are not so good (she was recently booted out of the Broadway cast of Oh, Men! Oh, Women! for such bad acting as kicking an actor in the shin, puckering another's mouth into speechlessness by slipping an astringent concoction into his stage drink), popped up in the Saturday Review to appraise a great lady of the French theater. Of Cecile Sorel: An Autobiography, Critic von Furstenberg wrote: "I suppose it is relatively easy for me to understand La Sorel, [who] teaches us what we seem to lack so dreadfully in our theatre today--a certain elegance, la grande maniere. In the richest country in the world why is no one inspired to create extravaganza, to shoot the works, so to speak? Why are there no more [Florenz] Ziegfelds, no more [David] Belascos? Why are the classics being 'read' off Broadway instead of being performed in great style at our best theatres?" Betsy's surefire answer, though not too true of herself: "Our methods of acting teach us so deliberately to be our ordinary everyday selves, is it any wonder that we find it difficult to be anybody else . . .?"'

In his yarn-packed autobiography, The Tumult and the Shouting, published last week, the late Sportswriter Grantland Rice (TIME, July 26) recalls a balmy Mardi Gras evening he once spent in New Orleans with Author Ring Lardner, one of whose talents was the delivery of perfect squelches. Wrote Rice: "We were surrounding a bar when an 80-year-old Southerner stepped up to Ring. 'You probably don't know who I am,' he drawled. 'My grandfather was General so-and-so on Napoleon's staff. My father was Count so-and-so of France. I was a general in the Confederate Army and, suh, I wear the Legion of Honor.' Ring spoke: 'I was born in Niles, Michigan, of colored parents,' he said. The general fled into the night."

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