Cocktails for the Russians

JUST like a cocktail party back home, I first thought. But not so. In our modest little venture into the diplomatic world, my husband and I found that when we sent an invitation worded “Cocktails from six to eight,” nearly everyone arrived precisely at six and left precisely at eight. In short, everyone is in the house at the same time.

You are under the obligation in the diplomatic service of seeing that your guests are neither smothered nor smashed. Therefore it is wise to make out a list of the people you think your house will hold. Cut it in half, and give two cocktail parties. The problem of crowding will still plague you. Or it did me. If you have two large reception rooms, your guests will force their way into one of those rooms, where they will stand all crushed together, fighting for air and spilling drinks over one another.

It is then your duty to seize any young man on your husband’s staff you think you can intimidate and tell him to bring a few people into the other room. With what result? Ten minutes later, everyone is in that room, all crushed together, fighting for air and spilling cocktails over one another.

I have even seen cocktail parties given in a spacious garden, with greensward stretching to infinity on every side. Yet everyone was mashed together in the middle of that garden like swarming bees around a queen.

A diplomatic cocktail party is in the nature of a reception. Keep a sharp lookout for stickers. The sticker is the guest who pauses to engage your guest of honor in the receiving line in a long and earnest conversation. Suppose you are giving a reception to the minister of education. The sticker will ask him to recommend a governess for his little boy, who was four years old last Wednesday. He will explain what he requires in a governess; he will go into intimate details about the boy; he will draw a floor plan of his house.

Meanwhile, the rest of the receiving line stand idly by, their right arms hanging uselessly at their sides. Impatient guests may start down the other end of the line. This creates a situation known in diplomatic parlance as a “shambles” and must be avoided — if you don’t want your husband transferred to Outer Cambodia.

You cannot pinch a sticker, kick him, pour cocktails down his neck, or beat him about the head and shoulders with some blunt instrument. Instead have your butler trained to remove the upstairs telephone receiver from the hook. Then, returning, he will say politely but loudly enough to be audible to the whole receiving line: “Long distance call from Washington for you, sir. Right this way.”

Another sticker who, though not as dangerous, can be very irritating is the cocktail connoisseur. He interrupts you in the middle of a conversation to ask if by any chance you can give him a Tasmanian Twister. You can’t, as it proves to be two parts pomegranate juice to five of green absinthe. If left to his own devices, he will sow dissatisfaction among your guests by assuring one and all that they don’t know what a real American cocktail is until they have had one of his Tasmanian Twisters. You may dispose of this guest in any way you choose.

At diplomatic receptions certain nationals always present their own peculiar problems. The true-blue Britisher is out of his element at a cocktail party, as he loathes cocktails — always has. And like the honest, forthright chap he is, he does not hesitate to say so Drinking cocktails, as he sees it, is an uncivilized, barbarous — in short, typically American — custom. But as his eloquence does not come to its full flowering until after his fourth or fifth cocktail, keep him well supplied. It costs no more than a theater ticket and is better entertainment. Or, as he himself would say, good value.

Many of my friends assume that the Russians are difficult to entertain. On the contrary, the Russians are the easiest of all. The only difficulty is that you must never expect to receive the number of Russians you have invited — and probably not the same ones. If you ask four Russians, two may come. Or none. Or ten. You can be certain that the number will not be four. Or one either for that matter, as, like nuns, Russians do not go about singly.

But they never bring their wives, which means one problem, at least, that the hostess does not have to consider. And after a ceremonious greeting, they will take up a position in one corner of the room and talk only to each other. Time was when starry-eyed idealists, of whom I was one, used to cluster about the little group and try to engage them in conversation. (Through their interpreter, of course. No matter how many languages a Russian speaks, he will speak nothing but Russian in public.)

“We’ve got to learn to understand the Russians,” we told each other earnestly. We believed that the peace of the world depended on it. This was in Berlin in 1946 and 1947.

I have been told that after a certain number of drinks a Russian will thaw slightly, but that it will be perceptible only to a trained observer. You may think a Russian is getting a little mellow when he holds up his glass with a pleasant smile and the interpreter tells you that the colonel wishes to drink a toast with you and that it is an old Russian custom to empty the glass at one gulp. He will gladly continue this game indefinitely, not out of friendliness but to prove that he can easily drink you under the table, which proves that he is better than you are, which proves that Communism is better than capitalism.

As the first of these propositions is unquestionably true, your only recourse is to pretend not to understand and take a sip of your cocktail. Let your menfolks take him on if they will.

During the period of 1946 and 1947 we saw a lot of the Russians, particularly in the French sector of Berlin. I was thrilled, at one of these French parties, to have my first dance with a Russian general. We danced in solemn silence, of course, except that the general was panting slightly and counting softly under his breath. (Awdeen dva tree, awdeen dva tree.) At the end of the three rounds, I was surprised and pleased to hear from the interpreter that the general had had a glorious time. Never in his entire life had he enjoyed a dance so much. While his enthusiasm seemed a trifle excessive under the circumstances,

I took it as a compliment. However, when I danced exactly three times round the room with a second general, and then a third, and was given exactly, word for word, the same speech by the interpreter, I began to wonder if Russian generals are sincere — or if interpreters can be relied upon.

The first time Russians came to our house was on the occasion of a reception we were giving in our garden. The interpreter greeted us on behalf of the little group — there were about six of them — and added that the colonel, who was the ranking man, wished to thank us for the invitation and to say he was not accustomed to being invited to a reception on such short notice. Full of good will, anxious to please, we explained the circumstances: the difficulty of transportation at that time, our uncertainty of the date of our honor guest’s arrival, and so on. The Russians nodded and passed on to take up their positions under a nearby tree.

About a hundred and fifty people attended the reception and as no one else thought of complaining we considered the subject closed. But when the Russians departed, the interpreter thanked us on behalf of the group and said that the colonel wished to say that he was not accustomed to being invited to receptions on such short notice.

The more I have seen of the Russians, the more I have come to believe that if the peace of the world depends on my understanding them, we are doomed indeed.

The Russians at your party will be the last to depart. Their good-bys will usually be as ceremonious as their greetings. But at last your house is empty of guests. Kick off your shoes and fling yourself on the nearest couch. You have been drinking tomato juice all afternoon, and will now have your first cocktail. Nectar is dishwater compared to an ice-cold dry Martini taken under these conditions.