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

In sunny Italy, where the pastime of cheating revenooers is a national sport, three hot-eyed cinemactresses with bulging purses--Gina Lollobrigida, Sophia Loren and Oscar-winning Anna Magnani--disrespectfully submitted their yearly earnings reports. Poor Gina claimed to have taken in $48,000, hard-pressed Sophia a mere $25,600, impoverished Anna a pathetic $5,600. After gallantly taking the ladies' gaunt figures as gospel, the revenooers, just for fun, totted up their own estimates: Gina, $130,000; Sophia, $97,000; Anna, $48,000.

The former NATO commander in Europe, brainy General Alfred M. Gruenther, 57, dropped in at the White House to pay his respects to Old Friend Dwight D. Eisenhower. On Al Gruenther's Distinguished Service Medal Ike pinned a third Oak Leaf Cluster, wished him well in his forthcoming presidency of the American Red Cross. That afternoon Gruenther mistily watched a "retreat parade" in his honor, then met some 600 friends who gave him a farewell handshake in observance of his 38-year military career that ends this week.

A newly arrived resident of Puerto Rico, famed Cellist Pablo Casals, turned 80, looked and talked closer to 40. Spaniard Casals, for the past 17 years a self-exiled dweller in France, explained why he will go on declining invitations to visit the U.S.: "I have a great affection for the U.S., but as a refugee from Franco Spain, I cannot condone America's support of a dictator who sided with America's enemies, Hitler and Mussolini. Franco's power would surely collapse today without American help." The secret of Casals' youthfulness? "The man who works and is never bored is never old."

In her Christmas message to the Dutch people, The Netherlands' Queen Juliana spoke out bluntly on the palace crisis that has rocked the House of Orange-Nassau. The royal disharmony manifest between Juliana and her consort, much-traveling Prince Bernhard, apparently focused on the Queen's now renounced ties with Faith Healer Greet Hofmans (TIME, June 25 et seq.). Said Juliana: "Why . . . do some people attack someone by devious means with false claims? Why . . . do they try to drive a wedge between a man and a woman in vain attempts to destroy a deeply rooted unity? . . . Do not I, too, have the right to try to be myself?"

A legal brawl shaped up over the estimated $500,000 estate of the late Bandleader Tommy ("The Sentimental Gentleman of Swing") Dorsey (TIME, Dec. 10). At the time of his death at 51, Trombonist Dorsey left his personal affairs in a double muddle: he was about to be divorced from his third wife, ex-Showgirl Jane New Dorsey, and--astonishingly for a man of his means--he left no will. Contestants in the upcoming fight: the third Mrs. Dorsey, who wishes to administer the estate v. two grown children of temperamental Tommy's first marriage, who ask that the estate be managed by more "competent hands."

Scarred by weeks of overhauls in hinterland tryouts, a melodrama called Protective Custody, starring Faye Emerson, arrived on Broadway, departed next evening after only three performances. Faye had plugged Custody on the CBS-TV show I've Got A Secret by graciously thanking her fellow panelists and Quizmaster Garry Moore for investing in the production. A repetitious rehash of brainwashing behind the Iron Curtain, the play left famed U.S. Foreign Correspondent Emerson with her psyche turned topsy-turvy, her golden locks trimmed to tatters, her nerves a wreck, her ensemble a sartorial mess. Groaned the New York Times's usually charitable First-Nighter Brooks Atkinson: "Nothing [the play] says is important enough to justify dressing Faye Emerson in a torn sweater patched at the elbows and turning her into an ugly creature. We do have standards in America. A handsome woman must not be treated shabbily."

Possibly because he did not like the strange look on her face, a Bolivian crackpot strode into Paris' Louvre Museum, tossed a rock at Leonardo da Vinci's famed Mono Lisa. Results: a smashed glass shield, a chipped left elbow for Lisa, no damage to her eternally mysterious Gioconda smile.

To Dr. William Carlos Williams, 73, far more renowned as a poet than as a retired New Jersey physician, went the annual $5,000 fellowship award of the Academy of American Poets--the most lucrative national prize now available to U.S. versemakers. Though tickled at getting the spare cash, outspoken Poet Williams made it clear that he could have got along without it: "I practiced medicine to get money to live as I damn please, and what pleases me is to write poetry. And so it's paid off; a poet can't be bought and he can't be sold." Why are his works (best-known: Paterson) relatively unread by folks in Britain? "I don't speak English, but the American idiom."

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