AMONG THOSE PRESENT

TIME'S Moscow Correspondent Richard Lauterbach donned tails last week, repaired to the Spiridonovka House for Foreign Commissar and Mme. Viacheslav Molotov's formal reception on the Red Army's 26th Anniversary. Wrote Lauterbach:

About 8:30 the Molotovs began to receive in one of the large palace rooms under a glittering crystal chandelier. It looked like the last act of Ziegfeld's Rosalie--wave after wave of bedecked diplomats, armchair generals, bathtub admirals from every civilized country and Japan. The Japs arrived in a protective wedge, their runt-sized correspondents flanked by a beefy general, their dapper ambassador overshadowed by a flashy admiral. They all smiled and you kept thinking of Mr. Moto.

Nobody was lovelier than blonde, Garboesque Mme. Haeggloef, graceful bride of the Swedish Charge. Nobody was fancier than the Norwegian Ambassador wearing every shape, cast, color and size of medal, decoration and ribbon. The new Ethiopian Minister, small and black, shone in his gold-braided costume. British Ambassador Sir Archibald Clark Kerr walked like a new Privy Councilor, impeccable in tails. U.S. Ambassador Averell Harriman looked like a nervous young curate at an Episcopal convention--out of place in his too long, double-breasted business suit which he had tried to formalize with a stiff collar. The collar only served to make him seem uncomfortable. Mmes. Litvinov and Maisky were conspicuously, modishly gowned.

During the ensuing concert I wandered through the various rooms greeting old friends--mostly waiters recruited from the Metropole. Sitting stiffly, but beautiful in tails, on a wooden bench near the coatracks were Dmitri Shostakovich and his wife. His sensitive poet's face looked bored. They said that they hoped to go to the U.S. after the war.

Charm and Champagne. When the concert was over, Molotov led the dash for the eats. There were ten dining rooms, all heavily laden with food and drinks. Zakuska (Russian hors d'oeuvres) was so plentiful that by the time the hot dishes arrived, hours later, nobody was hungry except the waiters, who kept filling up plates and tucking them away behind portieres. The food was excellent and wound up in a blaze of crepes suzettes, ice creams and purple champagne.

Most of the guests ate buffet style. But in a small back room the Molotovs sat with Harriman and his daughter Kathy, radiant in a long Alice blue gown; Clark Kerr and Alexander Korneichuk and his wife, Wanda Wasilewska, in a black silk skirt topped by a smart white lame jacket. When asked about Polish relations, Korneichuk, the new Foreign Commissar for the Ukraine, spoke charmingly about plans for rebuilding Kiev.

In another room' a U.S. Army officer tackled Marshal Budenny for a signature on his short-snorter. Budenny refused to sign his name on Soviet currency with Lenin's picture. Then he refused to sign the currency of any sovereign nation. Finally he wrote his name on a plain slip of paper. Budenny and the American drank a toast. "May the next one be in Berlin," said the American. Bowing low, Budenny hoped the next would be much sooner than that.

Much later I saw Harriman, resting uneasily against the edge of a table. He was surrounded by Foreign Trade Commissar Anastas Ivanovich Mikoyan & friends, who plied him with toasts. Earlier in the evening Molotov had caught Harriman drinking fizz water instead of champagne or vodka. Now it was the real thing and Union Pacific's headlights glowed dimly through the Russian fog.

At 3 in the morning the party was breaking up and waiters were counting the silverware. In the ballroom there was still dancing and gaiety and some of the guests stayed until the curfew lifted at 6, but the party never got out of hand as did the one on Nov. 7 (celebrating the anniversary of the Russian Revolution). The Japs were lonely tree stumps in a forest of people, and retreated very early.

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