Married. Arndt von Bohlen und Halbach, 31, scion of the Krupp steel corporation who receives an allowance o $500,000 a year as a quitclaim on the empire founded by his great-great-grandfather; and Princess Henriette von Auersperg, 35, elegant blonde daughter of one of Austria's oldest (13th century) houses; both for the first time; in a civil ceremony in Bluehnbach castle former retreat of Austrian Archduke Franz Ferdinand, whose assassination triggered World War I.

Divorced. By George Balanchine, 65 master choreographer and artistic director of the New York City Ballet Company for 20 years: Tanaquil LeClerq, 39, onetime prima ballerina who, after becoming Balanchine's fifth wife, was forced to give up dancing forever when she contracted polio in Copenhagen in 1956; on uncontested grounds of incompatibility; after 16 years of marriage, no children; in Juarez, Mexico.

Died. Conrad ("Nicky") Hilton Jr., 42, a director of his father's 41-nation hotel chain and inveterate playboy, who in 1950 became the first husband of an 18-year-old super-starlet named Elizabeth Taylor, was divorced by her after nine months and later remarried only once; of a heart attack; in West Los Angeles, Calif.

Died. Thelma Ritter, 63, Brooklyn-born character actress; of a heart attack; in Jamaica, N.Y. Her voice was purest Greenpoint gravel and her visage was forever screwed into the city dweller's skeptical query: "Who ya' tryin' to kid, buster?" She began her career, as she once put it, on the road as "an obnoxious child actress--the poor man's Cornelia. Otis Skinner." She married in 1927 and settled into domesticity, but in 1946 resumed her career in Miracle on 34th Street, portraying an irate mother haranguing a Macy's Santa Claus. Her sad face and sagging form soon became familiar screen fixtures. She was nominated for an Oscar as Bette Davis' wryly sagacious maid in All About Eve, for the tart relief she brought to such confections as The Mating Season (1951) and Pillow Talk (1959) and for three other roles, but never won the award. Said Thelma: "I'm the William Jennings Bryan of acting."

Died. Alfred Taliaferro, 63, former Walt Disney cartoonist who in 1938 conjured up a splenetic duck named Donald whose quackpot rages have delighted generations of children and earned untold millions for Disney's dominions; of cancer; in Los Angeles.

Died. Ralph McGill, 70, Pulitzer-prizewinning editorial writer and publisher of the Atlanta Constitution (see THE PRESS).

Died. Li Tsung-jen, 78, opportunistic Chinese general who fought with Chiang Kai-shek's Kuomintang forces against both the Communists and the Japanese, was elected Vice President of the tottering Chinese Republic in 1948, and after serving briefly as President, exiled himself to the U.S. in 1949 before defecting to Communist China; after a long illness; in Peking.

Died. Boris Karloff, 81, whose frightening portrayals of monsters and murderers chilled audiences for nearly half a century; of heart and lung disease; in Midhurst, England. Despite his sarcophagus glare, sanguinary deeds and voice from the tomb, Karloff terrified with a twinkle. "The idea of terror," he once said, "is to make the audience's hair stand on end, not to make them lose their breakfast." Off -screen, the British-born actor was a warm, witty, twice-married man who looked every inch the career diplomat that his father, a civil servant, wanted him to be. In 1931, after 15 years of minor parts, Karloff created his classic monster in Frankenstein. The creature with the mindless eyes, the scar-seamed cheeks and the ruthless, jutting forehead helped the movie to gross millions (on a cost of only $250,000) and spawned equally lucrative successors (Bride of Frankenstein, Son of Frankenstein). Critics praised him for the breadth of talent he displayed within the confines of archetype-casting: the ultimate Yellow Peril in The Mask of Fu Manchu (1932); the mad murderer in the Broadway version of Arsenic and Old Lace (1941); the contemptible Captain Hook in Peter Pan (1950). Through some 200 movies and plays Karloff maintained a steadfast affection for the Doppelganger that dogged him. "Dr. Frankenstein's monster was inarticulate, helpless and tragic," he once reflected. "But I owe everything to him. He's my best friend."

Died. Giovanni Martinelli, 83, dashing tenor whose voice rang molto con brio across the Metropolitan Opera stage for 32 years; of a ruptured aorta; in Manhattan. As a young soldier in the Italian army, Martinelli was persuaded to study voice by his bandmaster-sergeant. He labored under Toscanini in Rome, went to New York in 1913 after establishing himself as one of Europe's most promising dramatic tenors. By then, the Met had become the preserve of Enrico Caruso, but Martinelli held his own. He ate as voluptuously as he sang (a hearty lobster dinner once led to his collapse during Aida), but he was careful to pamper his voice, reaching the peak of his career at age 52 with an intense performance in the title role of Verdi's Otello. He retired in 1945 to teach voice, but in 1967, while lecturing in Seattle, Martinelli was asked to replace an ailing tenor in a local production. He sang the emperor in Puccini's Turandot, and the audience gave him two standing ovations.

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