44 / CHRONICLESnAfter cleaning and properly tighteningnthe solenoid, the electric arcingnstopped. Nevertheless, the car stillnwouldn’t start. Hewey, Dewey, andnLewey scratched their collective headsnand decided it was the starter. Deweyndid the grunt work and replaced thenburned out unit. Sure enough, thendead engine would now crank, but itnwouldn’t start. It was something morenthan the starter. Maybe it was in thenfuel line . . .nThe memorial dinner was marvelous,nand, like most formal affairs, hadnbeen opened with prayer. Immediately,na toast was offered. “To thenQueen!” For a second I paused. Incouldn’t remember the protocol fornAmericans. Do we toast foreign potentates?nBut then I thought, what thenheck, she’s a fine old girl, and after all,nshe is a mother. And who wouldn’tntoast his mother. And anyway, youncan’t consider a British sovereign anpotentate. So I raised my glass to BessnII. I felt like a character out of ThenNapoleon ofNotting Hill and realizednthat something needed to be said inndefense of our parochial little Republic.nI flashed a bicentennial glance atnmy table and raised my glass a secondntime. “To the Constitution.” Wendined.nThe tow-truck men had mentionednthat the area of the garage was dubbednHooker Row. Ladies of the night,napparently, plied their trade when thenpolice allowed. I saw none, though Incould discern the proverbial flashingnred light from a house window a blocknaway. I remembered the words of Solomonnto his son: “The lips of thenadulteress drip honey and her speech isnsmoother than oil; but in the end she isnbitter as gall. . . . Her feet go down tondeath. . . . Drink water from yournown cistern, running water from yournown well,” I couldn’t remember anythingnChesterton had said about chastity,nbut knew he would have agreednwith Solomon.nIan Boyd, the tall thin priest andneditor of The Chesterton Review, wasnthe spirit who made the conferencensucceed. There was nothing of thenChesterton figure in him, nor of thenFather Brown. He seemed to knowneveryone, and it’s quite possible hendid. Everyone I talked to had eitherncorrespondence with him, or had justntalked with him. His vibrant, high-nstrung spirit seemed always ready tonshare his love of Chesterton withneveryone.nElihu the Albanian arrived aroundn3:15. He towed cars for a living andnapparently was a mechanic as well. Henwalked over to my car, listened for anmoment, and gave the diagnosis: timingnchain. Elihu was a shrewd man,nand he shared his insights into economicsnas well as free automotive advice.nHe had nothing good to saynabout the Collectivists in his Communistnhomeland. “I came here withn$125 in my pocket; now I own my ownntow truck and can work when I want.nIf I want more money, I work harder.nIf I want to take off, I stop working.” Incould not help but think of Chesterton’snidealistic distributism as this fellowntalked. This man had come fromnpoverty, socialism; he now lived wellnthrough the benefits of Western economicnenterprise, capitalism. Whynwas it that a great spirit and mind likenChesterton’s couldn’t understand thenwealth-producing mechanism of freenenterprise? He certainly knew that socialismnwouldn’t work—witness hisnconstant debates with Shaw. But, thendistributism he proposed seemed justnlike a form of inefficient capitalism.nMaybe he had had a bad experience asna child with a capitalist nanny. Well,nwe must allow our lovable avuncularnmentors their hobbyhorses.nHewey added up my bill. Includingnthe tow, three hours work, a newnstarter, etc., etc., the bill came ton$179. He had Elihu check the figures.nMaybe he couldn’t add after all.nAs I left the service station and myncomforters, I glanced at the name ofnthe street. The name of the avenuenwas Fleeceland. How appropriate. Inhad not been fleeced—having stoodnover my mechanics, I knew they hadndone their best. But I was indeed thenJason of my house. In a Chestertoniannsense, I knew that I had found a fleece,na golden fleece of patient good-naturednadventure in a strange land, And I wasnbringing back to my family the news ofnmy great discovery. And this was mynChestertonian treasure: Truth can benfound all around us—in a piece ofnchalk, in a hat blown away by thenwind, in a literature convention, andnin a broken-down car in an all-nightngas station on a lonely roadway somewherenin Toronto. All one had to donnnwas look.nThat is what Chesterton taught me.nJames L. Sauer is Director of Librarynat Eastern College.nLetter From Albionnby Andrei NavrozovnThe Art of RegicidenH.R.H. The Duchess of York wore anblue and black top, with a navy-bluenbelt, over a black, knee-length leathernskirt. The female figure which stoodnbefore her was wearing a ball gownnconsisting of a bodice and skirt ol^paleneau-de-nil panne velvet decorated withnvertical stripes of sequins and laceninserts embroidered with jewels; thenbodice had a low neckline, short chiffonnsleeves, a dipped waist, and anslightly pouched front over a pointednflange in the waistband, while the skirtnwas flared, pleated in at the back, withna train. In her right hand she held anmother-of-pearl fan, with a silk leafnpainted in shades of gray and bluenwater-color with an overall pattern ofnbutterflies. Yet, everyone’s eyes werenon the duchess.n”She is very lovely and so fashionable,”nsaid Madame Olga Zamyatina,nwhose husband. His Excellency LeonidnMitrofanovich Zamyatin (“Ofncourse you know the Russian Ambassador”),nwas so helpful in organizingnthe exhibition. It was in this pleasantnatmosphere that “Russian Style: Courtnand Country Dress 1700-1920 Fromnthe Hermitage” opened its doors to thenBritish public on January 28.nOn the morning of January 29, withnpictures of the duchess (and some ofnher favorites from among the 120 exhibits)ngracing the front pages of thenmorning papers, there was more goodnnews. Standard advertisements, in thenbusiness sections, announced “RussiannCompensation” beneath the familiarnDieu Et Mon Droit crest of HernMajesty’s Government: “The ForeignnCompensation, Union of Soviet SocialistnRepublics, Registration and Determinationnof Claims.” It read:nA fund of about L46 millionnwill become available forndistribution to those who cann