{New Article} 1961: Clark Gable as I Knew Him

I’ve had this magazine for years and years. I never posted this article in the archive on the site because it is just an abridged version of Kathleen Williams’ book, Clark Gable: A Personal Portrait, so I figured it wasn’t necessary. Recently, I have had quite a few people email me and ask me if I knew where they can find the book, as it is out of print (Ebay and Amazon usually have copies). So I figured it would be worthwhile to put up this article so everyone could at least read the abridged version if they can’t get their hands on a copy.

I turned down the first invitation I received to meet Clark Gable. This was in 1942, shortly after I arrived in Hollywood. I had a stock contract at MGM, where he was the reigning star, and one day I received a call from Benny Thau, an MGM executive.

“We’re giving a little going-away party tomorrow night for Clark Gable—he’s leaving for overseas service,” Mr. Thau said. “I’d like to invite you as Clark’s dinner partner.”

This sounded like a command performance. I told Mr. Thau I was terribly sorry, but I had another engagement I couldn’t break.

Shortly after I hung up, another executive telephoned. He repeated the invitation. Politely, I declined again. Then came a third call. Mr Thau was back. He thought perhaps I had changed my mind. I hadn’t. Apparently, they just couldn’t believe an unknown young contract player named Kathleen Gretchen Williams would turn down a chance for a date with Clark Gable. “I’m sorry,” I repeated firmly, “I’ll just have to wait and meet him some other time.”

That time came about six months later. There were no intermediaries on the phone this time. “Miss Williams, this is Clark Gable. I’m home on leave,” he said. “I wonder if you’d have dinner with me tomorrow night.”

“I’m afraid I’m busy,” I answered.

“What day aren’t you busy?” he inquired, sounding just a little amused. I informed him that Wednesday was open, and he promptly replied that Wednesday was fine with him.

“How would you like to have dinner at my house?” Clark asked and added, “The ranch is really beautiful at this time of the year.” I said that sounded lovely. “I’ll call for you at 7:30,” promised Captain Gable.

He rang my bell at exactly 7:30. (I don’t think he was ever late in his life.)

We headed towards Clark’s Encino ranch. The big electric gate which guards the entrance opened for only a few of his closest friends in 23 years. Unlike many of his colleagues, he never invited the press into his house. His innate shyness, his reserve and natural dignity precluded any such wide-open door policy.

I’ll never forget my reaction as we drove the quarter mile of winding road to the house. It was not just what I saw, it was also what I sensed—an air of peacefulness. Solid hedges of oleander trees bordered the drive. Clark cherished the half-mile stretch of Etoile de Hollande climbing roses that he and Carole Lombard had planted during the early days of their marriage. So do I.

I should mention that we weren’t entirely alone on our first date. Clark had a Siamese cat named Simon, a dachshund named Commission and a beautiful hunting dog named Bobby. The whole troupe escorted us to the dining room. A few moments later, Jessie, the cook, came through the swinging door, bearing a large Spode platter with a tremendous roast of beef, surrounded by Yorkshire pudding and gravy. That platter was balanced on one hand, held high over her head.

Just as she approached the table, the cook tripped over the braided rug. She went down with a great crash. Yorkshire pudding plopped onto the table. Hot gravy splattered over everything. And that great big beautiful roast landed on the floor along with Jessie. But not for long.

Bobby, a hunter to the core, made the fastest retrieve in history. With jaws clamped firmly around the meat, the dog tore out of the room before anyone could recover. Meanwhile, the dachshund was attacking slices of beef, and the cat quickly grabbed a big hunk of Yorkshire pudding.

My dress was soaked through with gravy. Clark looked over. “Well,” he said, flashing me that grin, “the first date you have with me, you end up in the gravy. I imagine I’ve made quite an impression on you.”

We ended up our first date at the kitchen table, laughing and talking over bacon and eggs.

Later, rumors had it that I fell madly in love with Clark at first sight and desperately wanted to marry him, but that he was executing a characteristic Gable defense maneuver.  When we stopped seeing each other, about a year after we met, it was duly reported that I had overplayed my hand and had frightened Gable off.

The rumors didn’t particularly upset me. The reason was very simple—Clark and I were not deeply in love that first year. There was no great, great romance, just gaiety and amusing times together. When we stopped seeing each other, it was without any difficult scenes of parting. Clark phoned me to say good-by before he left for New York. As we were winding up our pleasant conversation, Clark remarked lightly, “Please, Kathleen, don’t get married again.” I replied, “May I say the same to you, my dear—and bon voyage.”

Clark didn’t write or telephone for the next ten years. Nor did I make any attempt to contact him.

I love that story of their first date. I just love that Clark took her home to the ranch for their first dinner, instead of some fancy restaurant. And I can just picture pulling up to the ranch and how serene it must have been. She lists the dauchsund’s name as “Commission” but it was actually “Commissioner” and he was Carole’s dog. Awww.

She’s right about the rumors of them parting. Pretty much everything you read says she came on way too strong and scared him off. She denies it. Who knows…

When we were first married, Clark had a glassed-in gun cabinet running the length of one wall in the library, which included a neat row of gleaming hunting knives. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to have guns in view of little children,” he said one day. Even though he loved the cabinet, he promptly called in a carpenter to rip it out and replace it with bookshelves.

It didn’t take long for those new shelves to become heavy with books. Clark averaged a book a day, and his taste ranged from Thurber to Thoreau.

One day, Bunker asked Clark what a certain word meant. “Why don’t you look it up in the dictionary?” Pa replied. “Oh, that’s too much trouble, and besides, I’m not sure how to do it,” the boy said.

Clark’s voice was friendly, but firm. “No, son, you must never say it’s too much trouble to learn something. Come on, let’s go look that word up in the dictionary. I’ll show you how.”

Clark took a great interest in helping me plan the children’s future education. One night, when we were discussing prep schools and colleges, Joan asked Pa what college he’d attended.  “The college of hard knocks,” he told her.

A few days later, Joan came home and marched up to Pa. “Dearest Stepfather,” she began, “I asked our teacher, and she said there is no such school as the college of hard knocks.”

Clark squinted and raised his eyebrows in that characteristic way of his. But his smile was warm as he took Joan’s hand and replied, “I don’t like to contradict your teacher, Joan, but I’m afraid someday you’ll find out there is.”

The children knew Clark made movies, but they attached no more importance to this than if he had gone to work in a bank or office building. Pa never talked about himself as a star. So they could never quite understand why he attracted so much attention when they were out.

Clark was so cute with those children. Such a tragedy he never lived to see his own. Makes my heart ache a bit that him and Carole never had a chance to have any, as he would have been young enough to enjoy them.

The last day Clark spent in the house he loved was Saturday, November 5, 1960. The night before, Clark had finally finished all work on The Misfits . He came home looking so worn out that my heart ached for him.

Saturday morning, he looked more rested. We had breakfast. Then later in the day, Pa took his hunting dog out to one of our back fields and worked him. He was pleased with the dog’s performance, and we talked about future hunting trips. Pa played with Joan and Bunker for a while, but later seemed quite tired and restless—so unlike him. So I said, “Come on, Pa, you had better get a good night’s sleep, so off to bed.”

About 4am, Clark awakened with a bad headache. I gave him some aspirin, and he dozed fitfully. At 8am, U woke to find Clark standing in the doorway. He had started to put on a pair of khakis, but he had been unable to finish dressing. His face was gray and beaded with perspiration.

“Ma, I have a terrible pain,” he said, “It must be indigestion.” I was frightened, but I tried to keep my voice calm as I helped him to a chair.

“I’m calling a doctor,” I said. “No, don’t,” Pa protested, “this will go away in a while. I don’t need a doctor.” I looked at Clark sitting there helplessly, then I reached for the phone. As I dialed, I said, “I’ve never disobeyed you, Pa. But this time, I’m sorry; you must have a doctor.” I knew something about heart conditions, having suffered from angina attacks.

The doctor called for an ambulance and a fire department rescue unit. “Is it a coronary?” I whispered. The doctor said he thought it was.

Clark protested my riding in the ambulance with him; he was afraid it might prove too upsetting in my condition. Of course, I insisted. “I feel terrible, Ma, doing this to you,” he said.

For the next ten days, I rarely left Clark’s bedside. One day, I brought in two little elbow pillows, so he could read more comfortably. Clark looked at me over the top of his reading glasses. “Come on, old lady,” he protested. “Let’s not overdo this. I’m not quite that fragile.”

Pa continued to look forward to the baby. I was five months pregnant then, and he used to say, “Kathleen, stand by my bed sideways—I just want to look at you.” One of my dearest and last memories of my husband was the look of proud anticipation on his face the day we borrowed a stethoscope and he listened to his son’s heartbeat. “You must have Mr. America in there,” he said. Today, when I hold John Clark in my arms, I remind myself that at least Pa had that much.

After Clark’s attack, the doctors explained the tenth day was generally the crucial one for a coronary patient. I went home to gather up some things for Pa. He appeared to be doing well that day. I was determined to be strong for my husband and the child we expected. But as I moved about our bedroom that afternoon gathering up the items Clark had requested, I broke down and wept. Finally, I pulled myself together and hurried back to the hospital.

When I entered his room, Clark looked at me and said, “Oh, God, Ma, don’t leave me again. I don’t want to be alone.”

The next day, Wednesday, November 16, we all felt encouraged. I brought in some of the letters and telegrams that had been arriving by the hundreds each day. Each afternoon, I’d select a small number for Clark to read.

I sat next to Pa’s bed. I had never seen him look so handsome, so serene, in all the years I had known him. The marks of his illness were gone. Clark looked 20 years younger, and his expression was peaceful. I’ve heard it said the flame burns brightest just before it sputters out. But this never crossed my mind as I sat there.

Pa and I had a nice little dinner together. At 10 minutes past 10pm, I felt an angina attack coming on. I couldn’t understand it; I hadn’t had one for nearly two years. I didn’t want Clark to worry, so I quickly made an excuse to leave the room. I kissed him and gave him a tender hug, saying, “Sweetheart, I’ll be back after the nurses get you ready for the night. Then we’ll drink our buttermilk together. I love you.” They were the last words I spoke to my husband.

Over and over, I have said to myself, “Oh, if I only hadn’t left the room.” But at least I know that it was over in a split second. The doctors assured me Clark had suffered no pain; he didn’t know he was dying. The nurse said he simply closed his eyes, his head fell back on the pillow, and he was gone. It happened at exactly 10:50pm.

I had dozed off after going to my room and was awakened by the doctor and a nurse. “Clark has taken a turn for the worse,” I thought I heard the doctor say. The nurse seemed to be crying. I started to get up, then blacked out. In a few seconds, I recovered. The doctor was rubbing my wrists. “What did you say?” I cried. This time I heard him clearly. “Clark has passed on.”

“Let me go to him,” I said, pushing myself up from my bed. “No,” pleaded the doctor. “It’s better for you to stay here.” I reached for my robe. Nothing on this earth could have stopped me from going to Pa. I motioned the doctor aside, and I went.

It’s hard to imagine Clark so weak and afraid of being alone. I can not even imagine being pregnant and suddenly losing your husband like that.  I give Kathleen credit for giving him some happiness in the final years of his life. I’ve always wondered though, if Clark and Kathleen had really considered what their ages meant in regards to them being new parents. I mean, 59 and 43. He’d be 70 when the kid is in third grade and in his eighties if he made it to the kid’s college graduation. Unfortuantely, he didn’t make it to any of that. And Kathleen died when John Clark was just 22. Sad.

You can read the article in its entirety in The Article Archive.