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He was a young officer from the neighbouring barracks who, invited to make merry with the hospitable O'Keeffe, had fallen a victim to Eileen's girlish charms and mature appearance, for Eileen carried herself as if her years were three more and her inches six higher. Her face had the winsome Irish sweetness; it, too, looked lovelier than a scientific survey would have determined.
However, Georgia O'Keeffe pictures are essays in experience that neither Rops nor Moreau nor Baudelaire could have smiled away. She is far nearer to St. Theresa's version of life as experience than she could ever be to that of Catherine the Great or Lucrezia Borgia. Georgia O'Keeffe wears no poisoned emeralds. She wears too much white; she is impaled with a white consciousness.
The O'Keeffe convoyed her across the two Channels, and took the opportunity of visiting a "variety" theatre in Montmartre, where he was delighted to find John Bull and his inelegant womenkind so faithfully delineated. So exhilarated was he by this excellent take-off and a few bocks on the Boulevard, that he refused to get down from the omnibus at its terminus.
O'Keeffe's face became red as the sun in mist. The cross heaved convulsively on her black silk bosom. "To whom else? You haven't forgotten he wanted to marry me." "No, but he has, I am fearing." "What?" It was now Eileen's turn to open her eyes, and the tears dried on her lashes as she listened. Mrs. O'Keeffe explained, amid the ebb and flow of burning blood, that she had waited in vain for Mr.
He bit off the rest of the fig and flung away the butt. I suffer little children to come unto me, Glynn said amiably. A bloody ape, Cranly repeated with emphasis, and a blasphemous bloody ape! Temple stood up and, pushing past Cranly, addressed Glynn: That phrase you said now, he said, is from the new testament about suffer the children to come to me. Go to sleep again, Temple, said O'Keeffe.
She has wished too large and finds the world altogether too small in comparison. What the future holds for Georgia O'Keeffe as artist depends upon herself. She is modern by instinct and therefore cannot avoid modernity of expression. It is not willed, it is inevitable.
The next morning, as she sat answering advertisements, the programme-girl knocked at the door of the bedroom and announced that Mr. Maper had called. Eileen turned red. It was too disconcerting. Would he never take "no" for an answer? "I won't see him. I can't see him," she cried. The girl departed and returned. "Oh, Miss O'Keeffe, he begs so for only one word." "The word is 'no."
"I shouldn't like to be in her shoes," she said evasively. "Officers seem to make the best husbands," said Mrs. O'Keeffe. "Because they are so much away?" queried Eileen, with a vague memory of her Lieutenant Doherty. That night the melancholia was heavy as a nightmare, without the partial unconsciousness of sleep.
"I know you to your delicious finger-tips. And that's why I am sorry you told me so much. I wanted to ask Nelly O'Neill to marry me. Now she'll think I'm only asking Eileen O'Keeffe, the daughter of the Irish gentleman." Her eyes filled with tears. "No, they both believe you capable of any folly. Besides, somebody would find out Nelly all the same." And a smile made a rainbow across her tears.
It is not without significance that she wishes to paint red in white and still have it look like red. She thinks it can be done and yet there is more red in her pictures than any other color at present; though they do, it must be said, run to rose from ashy white with oppositions of blue to keep them companionable and calm. The work of Georgia O'Keeffe startles by its actual experience in life.
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