AT THE TABLE

They were men, they were nations, they were the world. Looking upon the earnest members of the Security Council, the world might see something of its own hopes and fears, some of its own foibles and enigmas. Notables at the table:

Quo Tai-chi was the shrewd, soft-spoken Confucian. As chairman of the Council, China's mellow statesman seemed to remember the wisdom of the Analects: "Men are born pretty much alike, but through their habits they gradually grow further and further apart from each other." Imperturbable, patient, conciliatory, Dr. Quo sought to bridge the chasm of habits. His logic was simple and overwhelming (when Gromyko asked why the chairman had halted discussion, Dr. Quo answered: "I have no more speakers on my list").

James F. Byrnes was still the U.S. Senator. He spoke clearly, sharply, now & then emotionally, and usually as if to a gallery. He made a little joke occasionally, flashing his Irish smile and looking around, as pleased as an Irish thrush, when the audience politely laughed.

Andrei A. Gromyko was the Russian bureaucrat, stern, stubborn, suspicious. The dark, youngish (38) ambassador spoke in a monotone, looking neither to right nor left, as though talking into space or lecturing, as he used to before a Russian class in economics. He talked in Russian; at previous conferences he used English. He repeated himself; twelve times he used the phrase "postpone consideration of the question until the loth of April." He evaded rather than answered questions.

Away from the table he was just as repetitious and evasive. To persistent reporters he said: "I don't know. . . . I still don't know. ... I have nothing to say. . . . There is nothing new...." An aide finally took over: "Mr Gromyko will never make a statement." An incredulous newsman asked: "Never?" The aide retorted: "No, never."

Sir Alexander Cadogan (rhymes with pa-DUG-in) was the guardian of the British Empire, a product of Eton and Oxford, a veteran of four decades in the diplomatic service. Cool, clipped, careful, the former Permanent Under Secretary for Foreign Affairs stayed in the background at open sessions. In closed sessions, he was most firm 'in holding the line against the Russians.

Pedro Leao Velloso was the watchful Brazilian. A lawyer and seasoned diplomat, Dr. Velloso sat silently and glistened; his dark green glasses, the scarflike handkerchief that poured from his breast pocket, the glistening mahogany-hued dome of his bald pate all shone.

Mahmoud Hassan Pasha was the proud Moslem. Egypt's jurist-diplomat wore gaudy ties, played with his microphone, ignored his advisers, spoke plainly and at length, thumped the table to emphasize points, reminded his listeners again & again that he had served in his country's high courts.

Henri Bonnet was the logical Frenchman. In an illogical world, the astute historian and ambassador moved warily and worriedly. He spoke with a Frenchman's concern for le mot juste, suggested compromises with a quiet desperation. In his suite at the Hotel Pierre he served his colleagues sherry and petits fours. At week's end, no one was more relieved than he that UNO still held the Big Three.

Francisco Castillo Najera was the impulsive Latin American. Mexico's Foreign Minister, a surgeon, poet and guitar player as well as diplomat, spoke and gestured volubly. In his heavily accented French, he dropped Gallic syllables like Mexican hot tamales. When he rendered Gromyko's cumbersome title, Representant de I'Union des Republiques Socialistes Sovietiques, it shortened to le repres . . . tant de Union . . . tique. But at tense moments the versatile Mexican was a model of taciturn tact.

Oskar Lange was the pedantic Pole. The rotund onetime teacher and U.S.-naturalized citizen, who now serves as Warsaw's Ambassador to Washington, squirmed, mugged and needled his way through the discussion. He listened with smug approval to his own high-pitched voice, glanced around beamingly for the laudatory nods and bobs of his four advisers. The more satisfied he seemed with his role as apologist for Russia and cross-examiner of Iran, the more pronounced became his facial tic.

Hussein Ala was the nervous Persian. The little, diffident, birdlike, polite Ambassador clicked his heels and bowed as he took his seat at the table. As he presented his case in British-tutored English, he sat, unrelaxed, on the edge of his chair. For Iran and all the other United Nations his position was symbolic. *

-New York's Communist Daily Worker characterized the delegates in its own unique way, thus: Quo--"slick." Byrnes--"a small, crabbed . . . blinky, tight, screwed-up face . . . the sense of his words was sinister nonsense." Ala--"the little adventurer." Lange--"a serious, charming and humane individual." And as for Gromyko--"this face is full of strength . . . spoke always without anger, but with logic and force, and quiet determination."

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