R.S.V.P.: Pat and Dick

THE WHITE HOUSE

"Enjoy this house," the host told his guests with a grand gesture of welcome. Almost before his hand was down, a Congressman was testing the springs in the Lincoln bed, the Vice President was ogling the elegance of the Queens' Bedroom, and a gaggle of Capitol Hill wives was oohing over the array of gifts garnered during the President's recent trip to Europe. "If I'd known it was this lovely," confessed Eugene McCarthy, peeking into a rarely seen family room of the White House, "I would have worked harder."

The Senator's awe was shared by nearly everyone else the Nixons feted during three nights of receptions for Congressmen and their wives last week. Invited into the family rooms--which until a few years ago were almost as private as the inner sanctum of the Winter Palace in Lhasa--most visitors boggled. A few noted subtle changes. A portrait of Eleanor Roosevelt has been replaced by one of Dwight Eisenhower; Woodrow Wilson, a hero of the President (though a Democrat), has succeeded Lyndon Johnson. "All those damn Indians," as one rubbernecker inelegantly described George Catlin's incomparable frontier paintings, have been banished from the upstairs corridor. Pieces from the White House vermeil collection have replaced Lady Bird Johnson's personal collection of porcelain birds, and a wooden gavel inscribed to the President, a gift from the Mayor of Vincennes, Ind., rests on an end table.

Hard drinks were not served, but punch and champagne -- California Almaden--flowed adequately. After the final Johnson years, when business suits were the accepted dress at congressional receptions, the legislators seemed eager to preen in black tie and whatever. Senator Strom Thurmond showed up in a rusty red dinner jacket that about matched his hair. Senator Jacob Javits sported what he jokingly referred to as his "basic black by Bill Blass."

Even more basic was the brilliant silver minidress worn by Mrs. Edward Kennedy, one of the very few women not attired in a long gown. The President, perhaps looking ahead to 1972, never took his eyes from the pretty face of his potential rival's wife as he greeted her and exchanged pleasantries in the receiving line. But Mrs. Nixon, for one long instant, could not suppress a stare at those six lissome inches between Joan's hemline and knee.

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