Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1928-10-14
FLOWERS OF THE SOUL >AN>z
By Dorothy Garfield
Drab Ugly Surroundings Apparently Unable Escape Helena Felt
Give Her Anything She Wanted.

in the way. Never think of yourself.
| Never think of any one else, only of
| your gift. Fight to get out Of this"
| he waved his nand at all that Helena
loathed-"there are people in the world
who will recognize you. Fight your way
to them"
He dropped his gaze again to the por-
trait of the pine tree. After silence
1T may be genius" he said, in low
tone.
At this Helena began to tremble so
that she feared she would fall to the
ground Selling her painting and turn
ing in a panic, she stumbled her way
back to the safe blackneSS of her attic
room.
THE next morning a book was left at
the house, slender volume, ex-
quisitely bound in green leather, with
the tile in gold, LES Fleurs de Tame"
The aStonished student who brought
1t said that the famous and distinguished
exchange professor from Paris had sent
it to the landlady's daughter with his
admiring greetings" He looked strange
ly and respectfully at Helena as he re-
peated this.
The girl went hot and cold again.
She had not. after all, dreamed it. She
held out her hand for the beautiful,
exotic creation. 1t was for her.
A poet, living poet had given her
his poems. 1t was a dedication from
the author written in slim. pointed
Gallo hand: For Helena, in recog-
milton of her genius, from a fellow
artist"
Helena closed her eyes to keep back
the singing tears of eXaltation. No, it
was not to her that the poet had given
his book. 1t was to her gift. the gift
that lay hidden within her, waiting for
her to save its life.
She took hold of the volume in her
two strong hands, as though 1t had been
a weapon. 1t was weapon.
She had always known she could fight.
She had been fighting all her life. Blu:
now she knew that there was something
to fight for.
At 81 she had fought and starved and
struggled her way out from the dark
wood, and saw the road straight before
her.
What was more, she had battled her
way into her own world while she was
still young enough paSsionately and
furiously to enjoy it,
During her first Winter in Paris, the
Winter when she painted the powerful
portraits. two of which were soon to
hang in the Metropolitan and the Lux
embourg, any soul less toughly resistant
than hers would have been exhausted by
the intensity of her inner life as the
certainty of her own powers came pour
ing up, liberated, from the depths. to
meet and conquer the technical diff
culties of her art
That Winter was full of epic hours In
her own studio, and in the galleries,
where her heart leaped up joyfully to
see the victories over those difficulties In
the canvaSeS of the masters.
Sometimes she stood stock-still for
moment, either before brilliant
achievement in anothers painting or
before half-finished portrait of her
own, glorifled out of all resemblance to
her old self by the fullness Of life pour
ing into her opened soul.
Could she be the same human being
who had sat by the kitchen stove, the
chrome over her head, the green dog
under her feet, the stagnant room full
to the brim with Illustration?
She was wholly changed by being
fighting desperately for her life, she
felt simple impulses of kindness and
liked to give pleasure, she who had been
a darkly hating Ishmael.
She tried to think what, in the Paris
shops, would please her mother, and
sent her peace offerings of lace and
carved ivory.
There was plenty of money now. One