JONES Two ILLIANDIA by Dan Bailey I felt that night as Ulysses must have, lying imprisoned on the Isle of the Cyclops. A strange semi-fear prevailed across my heart. I sensed an intangible, unaccountable, melancholia which would not be shaken from my brain. A weird feeling told me that when I entered the door of my study I should be met by that which would stamp its effigy upon the parchments of my memory and there remain to haunt me through all my living hours. I say I felt this inwardly and yet, I could not be sure. Some nymph of fancy made me tremble and pause with the key half in the lock, wondering if my will were strong enough to proceed. All evening I had had thoughts of Illiandia. Her memory had shadowed me through the darkness of a theatre, the brilliance of a night club, the fresh air of a cab through the park, and now, when I had quit the evenings entertainment, for the seclusion of my abode, she haunted me still. Her ghost was ever present just past the corner of my eye where I could not turn quickly enough but that she, the faster being a vision, would fade from sight and become only a presence filling me with fear. Illiandia a name to be worshipped by the commonest or mightiest of man a maiden whose physical charm far outstripped any I have ever seen or hope to see. Illiandia, who was to have been my wife. But it was not as a thing of beauty that Illiandia returned that night, but rather as the dark, inexplicable, sultry girl with smoldering eyes and ruby lips, half parted. The changeable vixen whose tongue was like a cobra's as it darted out to moisten the lush fullness of her lower lip when she was displeased. This was the Illiandia I could never explain. The Illiandia of fear. I turned the key in the lock and opened the door and pressed on the lights, not breathing in apprehension of what I might see. My study was just as I had left it. All the familiar things which usually gave solace to my troubled soul, were unchanged. The red velvet drapes with their soft folds reaching the floor; rich velvet that makes the back of the mouth dry when a hand is run over its pliable surface biting acrid smells of the log burning in the fire place and stale tobacco. Indian tapestry of a boar escaping the hunters, carrying a spear through its throat and casting dark spots of blood on the ground behind it, original paintings of great masters, decanters of good wine and whiskey, ivory paper knife with handle carved in the figure of a nude woman, exquisitely done, odor of leather, bowl of candy, rows of great books, Poe's poetry lying open on the divan before the fire adorned the room. Illiandia's picture was there above the mantle with dark curtains drawn across its surface. All these were there. I was glad. Apparently my fears were groundless. I would think no more of sad things. I poured a tumbler of wine and passed it beneath my nostrils, inhaling the fragrance. Softly I stroked the velvet drapes. The hair on my neck rose gently and my palms were dry and tight. Before the fire, I turned my fancy afloat to drift where it would. I should prepare more poems for the publishers; my next volume wouldn't be out on time if I didn't. There was a young girl at the night club tonight whom I used to know. Before I met Illiandia I loved her once. She's a banker's mistress now. My head is warm with the wine. I want to pull the curtains and look at Illiandia's picture. But I must forget that I think I shall write a poem about the girl whom I loved once. It wouldn't be a pretty poem. Strange, when Illiandia lived I wrote of beauty and love. I aimed my pen at tenderness, sympathy, chastity, idealism. Now I see cheap women and immortalize their sins in verse. I wrote to Illiandia and ethereal liveliness crept into my words unbidden: "And stars shall fall from out the sky; And men shall hate and fight and women die; All this and more shall happen neath the stars above, That men may live, my dear, and we may love." Suddenly I started from my reverie. The dread feeling had returned, stronger than before. Where there had been a fancy there was now a fear. Where fear held sway, terror now mounted towards my throat, and I felt I should stifle if I did not scream. There was no tangible reason for the emotions I experienced; the room was still the same. I was quite safe, within easy reach of a telephone to summon aid, and yet I knew that if my fear materialized all modern aids would be impotent, Illiandia was again forging her way into my consciousness. Had I not known her dead and entombed within the family vault I should have sworn she was soon to enter the room. My memory drifted, and I was again in Spain in the autumn when I met Illiandia. She, the much sought after daughter of a prosperous merchant; I, the poet-soldier-of-fortune, whose poetry was enjoying world recognition. I met her first in the ruins of a Spanish mission at twilight. She was sitting on a half decayed wall, and I caught the fullness of her beauty as the shadows crept across her face and throat. To try and tell that beauty is folly. Man has no words to describe perfection. I remember her eyes with their lashes of jet black, their lids half closed as if in dreaming, the dark pupils large and growing larger as the light of day faded. I remember her lips. Those lips were ever to be for me a symbol of Illiandia. Both seemed to have been carved out of liquid flesh. They both were soft, full, and the lower cast a dark shadow on her moulded chin. Never has man known such happiness as I that night beneath the Spanish moon. The fever of the night was in my blood and in hers. We loved as only kindred souls can love. Our love grew through the hours we spent together. I was sure I would never again love more; no emotion could be more complete than that which Illiandia and I experienced. Her father was glad when we told him of our love. He thought we should marry there in Spain, but my poetic soul would allow nothing Three (Continued on page 22)