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

Veteran of four childless marriages, Cinemale Clark (Mogambo) Gable, 54, surprised his recent bride (TIME, July 25), sometime Cinemactress Kay Williams Gable, 37, by lighting up a cigar at a Hollywood soiree and declaiming on the glorious institution of fatherhood. Forgiving Gable for his inability to keep their secret (ETA: next May), Kay chirped: "He certainly went all ham then . . . Besides, he's started to pamper me, and I've never been pampered in my whole life." (Kay once charged that her former husband, the bibulous sugar heir, "Daddy" Adolph B. Spreckels II, beat her with a jeweled slipper.) Someone reminded Kay that she will soon be deluged with baby showers. Said she: "Oh, dear! I've just finished thanking everyone for our wedding presents."

Geneva-spirited word came from Moscow that Russia's great Author Feodor Dostoevsky, long dead (since 1881), long slurred by Soviet Communists as a reactionary and neglector of anti-czarist struggle, will soon be restored to the U.S.S.R.'s literary Valhalla. Next February the Soviet state publishing house will start issuing a ten-volume edition of Dostoevsky's fiction, not published in Russian since 1930.

Backpats were traded on a Hollywood set by Academy Award-winning Cinemactress Grace (The Country Girl) Kelly and jut-jawed Cinemactor Glenn (The Blackboard Jungle) Ford, just visiting. Both have been nominated for top acting honors in the first annual Audience Awards poll, whipped up by the Council of Motion Picture Organizations to give U.S. moviegoers a chance to name their own favorites. Votes will be cast in the nation's theaters the latter half of next month.

The U.S.'s most unwanted gift to Italy, onetime Manhattan Vice Czar Lucky Luciano, 57, whose 9 1/2-year sojourn in New York pens crowned his career as a top merchandiser of dope and prostitutes, was set to go back in business selling hypodermic needles and such in Naples, where Italy's cops have him sequestered. Lucky's new racket, however, is apparently legitimate; he will soon open a clinical supply store, purveying such items as stethoscopes and bedpans to Neapolitan doctors and hospitals.

Quietly boarding a train's third-class carriage in his old Alsatian home town of Gunsbach, Dr. Albert Schweitzer, 80, some four decades after renouncing already notable careers in music and philosophy to become a medical missionary in French Equatorial Africa, rolled off to London. Forgoing fancy hotels in favor of staying with a longtime Alsatian friend who runs a teashop, Nobel Peace Prize-winner Schweitzer one day drew on a shabby, dark overcoat, headed for Buckingham Palace. There Queen Elizabeth II invested him with the insigne of the exclusive (24 members) Order of Merit. As a non-Briton, Dr. Schweitzer became the order's second living honorary member (the other: Dwight D. Eisenhower).

Tireless Cinecomedian Danny (Hans Christian Anderson) Kaye loped into Manhattan, accepted from tireless Internationalist Eleanor Roosevelt and the American Association for the United Nations an award for "his unique accomplishments in aiding the children of the world." Volunteering as a U.N. "ambassador at large" last year, Kaye spent two months hopping some 40,000 miles about Asia, worked and entertained mightily for the United Nations International Children's Emergency Fund. The ceremony marked the prelude to nationwide observance (except in Utah--TIME, Oct. 17) of United Nations Day.

After two largely tranquil years in the service, the past eleven months as a military policeman in Alaska, Army Corporal G. (for Gerard) David Schine, 28, long to reign in U.S. military annals as the most famed noncombatant private of all time, was routinely discharged from the Army at New Jersey's Fort Dix. The unwilling storm center of last year's Army-McCarthy blowoff, Civilian Schine planned to take up his chores (for which he drew handsome salaries throughout his Army days) as president and general manager of his father's nation-spanning chain of five hotels (e.g., Florida's Boca Raton, Los Angeles' Ambassador) and as boss of a string of more than 150 movie houses.

After a slam-bang 40,000-mile dash through 17 countries, Washington's Hostess-with-Mostes' Perle Mesta, still a little breathless in her mink stole and red velvet cloche, reported to a gathering of local newshens: "The Far East is sizzling." Of her near-fatal brush with rioting Vietnamese students in Saigon (TIME, Aug. 1), the lady who has often placated riotous guests with caviar and champagne confessed: "I had no idea what a mob was like. It was a miracle that I got out of Saigon with all my luggage." Biggest flop of her trip came when Ace Conversationalist Mesta tried for an hour to worm some pleasantries from India's Prime Minister Nehru. Sputtered the ordinarily voluble ex-U.S. Minister to Luxembourg: "I never had such an interview. I talked, talked, talked and got nothing!"

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so reader's discretion is required.