And what was I doing in this studio on Charteris Street? Seeking Philip,

as I seek him today, through the years, the distance, and the passion that separated us. Many people sought Philip in those days. Some for music, some for talk. Some for wine, and some for shelter. If there were some who sought him for love, I do not know. I sought him for guidance, for inspiration, and for friendship. All these he gave me, and generously. And I repaid him badly.

Perhaps it is because I never really belonged, because I was a mere mortal, beholding the revels of a midsummer night's dream, that it all remains an. unforgettable drama to me. And yet, maybe I was no more alien to these various assemblages than were some of the others. Philip always drew a motley group. Lawyers and sailors, doctors and prostitutes, painters, musicians and stenographers. Many times all of these present simultaneously. At these times I was always welcome. And when Philip was there alone, I was always welcome. But there were nights, when lonely and hungry for companionship, I would go to Philip's door, and he would say, sorry Janet, I've got someone here, you understand? And I would nod my head dumbly, and leave.

To me Philip cried when he was in his cups. Only then did I hear the name of Evan. Evan the evanescent, Evan the beloved. Deep in his wine and in his sorrow, Philip would bring forth the photographs he had taken, the paintings he had painted, the poems he had written. All of Evan and for Evan. And I would look, and I would listen, and I would read. And my heart ached for the presence of one I had never met, my eyes burned for the sight of one I had never seen. Strong for me, as well as for Philip, was the feeling of Evan in that studio on Charteris Street. For he had been there, and he was gone. But he will come back, Philip told me. He always comes back.

Yet, when there was no wine, there were no tears, and there was no Evan.

Then we talked of other things, Philip and I. Together we read Proust . . . Remembrance of Times Past and Cities of the Plain. Crouched at Philip's feet before the fireplace burning with nothing but discarded cigarette butts, I knew, loved, and understood many things that seem today beyond my horizon. Or we sat at the piano and Philip would bang out the score of Madam Butterfly, while I screeched the female arias. His tongue would be in his cheek, because he hated opera. That was one of the few things we disagreed on. I loved the sound of the human voice raised in song, while Philip thought it should be confined to verbal communication. In this he was never able to convince me. Music, Philip believed, was the voices of instruments, either singly or in accord. He played records for me on his battered old phonograph, and there I learned to love Bach and Chopin, Rachmaninoff and Grieg. It is because Philip did not like Haydn or Handel that they elude me to this day.

Together we looked at pictures. Philip made no attempt to influence my opinion, but it is doubtless that because he preferred dark somber impressions of city streets at night, that I seek these out still. Such was the essence of my hours with Philip. But gone are the days.

Evan came back. I knew it when Philip turned me from his door that night. Joy had come to his eyes, and happiness quivered in his voice. And I ached for

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