Standing at the piano, Meynell says, “he would gaze at the performer, his body waving to and fro in tremulous pleasure.” As a young man, he had shirked his studies at the medical college to attend musical performances. The passage I’m thinking of is one where Meynell describes the poet’s love of music, which expressed itself particularly in an adoration of the piano. Maybe you can tell when someone is dead, I thought, because of the peculiar way in which they look alive. Or it did, but as something not wholly real, like the weather in another city. On the first level, the level of fact, I found this story sad. Thompson wrote poems on dirty scraps of paper and kept them in his pockets. Cold, dark London: fog and gas lamps, horses’ breath, shadows on stone. Which is ugly and misogynistic, but not necessarily serial-killer talk. Over the foot of the bed someone had folded a patchwork quilt. I didn’t know much about Thompson’s life, and I had to admit, as I slowly turned the pages, that some strange synchronicities emerged when you laid his biography over the timeline of the Ripper murders. That afternoon, as I sat reading and listening in Holly’s backyard, the music and the images from the Thompson story seemed to blend together, so that in my mind’s theater, Richter’s playing became a soundtrack for the perverse costume drama of Patterson’s book. But instead of treating it as suggestive but ultimately uncertain, Patterson charged ahead with the intensity of a prosecuting attorney, brushing aside all doubt. And here’s what I mean about my two levels of reading. In London, where he fled after his mother died and he could no longer hide his failure at school, he read De Quincey and the encyclopedia. From then on he played the piece as it was written. He lifted his thin arm above his face, the elbow bent as if he were warding off a bright light. Coming into the studio already felt like stepping out of time. It was a sunny afternoon in Los Angeles. The antique metronome, like something that might have fallen back to Earth after Sputnik launched. I’d been playing it with my ring finger, as my yellow Schirmer’s Classics Library edition recommended, but she thought the pinkie might make more sense. He refused to go. Read in a certain light, its monomaniacal focus on God’s relentless pursuit of the speaker might even seem to frame the relationship between deity and human as that between a murderer and his prey:
I fled Him, down the nights and down the days,
I fled Him, down the arches of the years;
I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways
Of my own mind; and in the midst of tears […]
From those strong Feet that followed, followed after. On the night of August 30, 1888, a warehouse fire went up in the West India docks along the Thames. Certainly Mrs. Thompson herself rarely mentioned him. You had the little bust of Brahms, the rounds of lace. Verses beating in his head. It’s somewhere between a biography and a memoir. It was a recording from the 1950s that preserved the mistake Richter had made when he memorized the piece — that one wrong note, almost unnoticeable, a 20th of a second where he’d shown a rare fallibility. Dancing, not banging, please.”
It was confounding to think she had a living father. He was known to carry a surgical scalpel on his person. He could not play himself, but he knew a sequence of chords, and “he struck them,” Meynell says, “with such earnestness that I, as a child, was impressed by his performance.” He held down the keys as the notes, briefly suspended, decayed, crossing as they did so the uncertain bridge between what exists and what is gone forever. Mrs. We slide the thumb under the palm to keep the slurred passage even. Two witch-babies, ho! That self-annihilating quality, never quite at ease with the obvious immensity of his talent, is part of what makes his playing so riveting. Thompson and I were from the same small town, but I knew it only in its current form, with its miles of strip malls on 14th Street and its three Sonic drive-ins and the constant quiet stress over how many jobs the refinery would shed next year. DURING MY JUNIOR YEAR of high school, I took piano lessons from a woman named Frances Thompson, who lived in a well-kept but fading ranch house on Grand Avenue, alone with her dying father. I had heard stories about our great tycoon, the scion of an ancient English family from the village of Ashton-under-Lyne, near Manchester; he had built a vast oil empire in the early 20th century, when Oklahoma was practically the Wild West. Polly laughed that she’d earned the money she needed three times over but kept drinking it away. Where did her experience open onto mine? They accepted his poems, came to Whitechapel to find him, tried to get him off the streets. He submitted a crushed and barely legible manuscript to a Catholic magazine, Merry England, edited by Wilfrid and Alice Meynell, but he had no return address; he asked the editors to send his rejection to the post office. She wasn’t someone you could impress with little virtuosic tricks. What was real was the feeling of being in a ghost story. Yet that very celestial quality, the sense, which Thompson strongly conveyed, that he could see into the world beyond our own, concealed a darkness — perhaps better to say it was a darkness, transmuted in his poems only through a keen effort of spirit. Thompson — the challenge of it, at her age, the expense, the waiting, possibly the grief. Now he was facing me. However, most of this evidence was ambiguous — Thompson made a joke, say, about how cutting open a doll as a child had taught him never to look for a beautiful woman’s brains. There’s a line Chesterton singles out in his essay on Thompson. Probably every dried-up oil town in the United States has one music teacher whose pedagogical lineage traces back to Liszt; she was ours. At the British Museum Library he was turned away for being unclean. He took opium to sleep. Those that survive show a mind not exactly planted on firm rock. I’d never been beyond the studio before. We couldn’t find the book she wanted in the studio, and Mrs. In the garden, I played through my headphones a file I’d dug up online. To me, she was ancient. Thompson isn’t much talked about these days, but he wrote some of the most beloved religious poetry of the late Victorian era, work that for decades featured on Catholic-school reading lists, that was anthologized and memorized and admired by critics. Thompson meant by grace; she meant you had to be the astronomer, and not, or not only, the supernova. I heard him rustle in bed. This was his sickroom, evidently. I wasn’t sure how to tell. We bring out the dissonances — see? Before that he spent years semi-sequestered in monasteries, writing verses about God’s love. I wondered if he was dead. In a way, that is what she was doing. Thompson, who could be placed in the vicinity of the murders at the time of the murders, had had such training. A few months earlier she’d found a job as a servant in Wandsworth, but she hated the work and fled to Spitalfields with a bundle of stolen clothing. The very littleness of the imperfection galled. Wilfrid and Alice Meynell eventually succeeded in getting him out of Whitechapel. Not that I believed everything in the book, exactly. And then, because his memory was prodigious, he’d replicated the mistake for decades, including on at least two recordings, without ever going back to check the score. My ideal of pianism was that when you finished playing, your hair should be sticking up, because of passion. I, who memorized pieces faster than I could learn to play them, who couldn’t properly practice a measure until I knew it by heart, found this baffling. In photos, he looks like a fragile mystic. He was lying in a hospital bed. Nothing definitive; just uncanny parallels, in a Dark Side of the Moon-played-over­-The Wizard of Oz sort of way. Thompson wanted to look, that night, at a different edition of the French Suites, specifically the allemande that opens the second, in C minor. “It just has to sound logical. Dr. I thought of this mode as “romantic.” I was good at dreaming up melodies Helena Bonham Carter might freeze to death in Australia to, somewhat less good at scales. He would tell his father that a professor had kept him back to offer him extra instruction when in fact he had gone to the home of a pianist to hear music. Many nights he spent walking up and down Mile End Road, often in the grip of delirium. At 47 he wasted away from tuberculosis. There’s no hard evidence. Everything builds toward this weird major chord at the end.”
“Well,” she said. Mrs. It was better to have a lot of music, even too much music, even an absurd amount of music, than too little. Yet in a way his very implicitness intensified the weirdness of his being there. So we’re thinking, but the thinking is dancing — dan-cing, dan-cing, dan-cing. I’d become mildly obsessed with Sviatoslav Richter’s recordings, as many people do with Sviatoslav Richter’s recordings, finding in them an intensity of focus that sets them apart from other musicians’. To play them well took poise I hadn’t begun to develop. This weird doubling of response continued, in fact compounded, as I read, so that before I was halfway through the book I almost seemed to be reading two stories, two parallel but unconnected narratives, at the same time. Clusters of red and purple flowers swayed in the breeze as I turned the pages of Patterson’s book, drinking endless cans of the lime-flavored seltzer that Holly brought out from her kitchen. In Mozart we play allegretto lightly, lightly; and there were her hands on the keyboard, knobbed and spotted as if they’d spent a century or so under the sea, playing allegretto with a lightness that seemed simple, seemed like nothing at all, except that I couldn’t mimic it. DECEMBER 17, 2017

1. When he was supposed to be studying anatomy, he listened to piano music. It was just that the pieces were so measured. I saw Thompson as a boy, swinging from a golden chain the thurible he used (so Patterson said) to start a fire in the seminary. I walked down a dark hallway, toward what I supposed was the dining room, where the file cabinet she’d told me about was kept. One of his poems, “The Kingdom of God,” contains the first use of the expression “a many-splendoured thing.” A person of strange intensities, clearly; an unsettling, even otherworldly person, but not someone you’d peg as a murderer. The summer before, I had gone with my father to the funeral of a distant relation, a huge man who lay in an open casket in a pair of dark blue farmer’s overalls, and I remembered how fragile he had looked, how strangely chastised, with his big hands folded over his work shirt, nose pointing up toward the lights. ho! Thompson deserved better. Once, only, I saw him. This had the effect of completely freaking me out. Thompson didn’t quite feel like getting up from her chair, so she sent me into the house to continue the search. Too little and you risked becoming like Sviatoslav Richter, the great Russian pianist, who discovered near the end of his career that he’d spent 40 years playing a single wrong note in Bach’s Italian Concerto. She’d been married and had five children, but that had all fallen apart. By then he’d long since been rescued from poverty. Thompson was somewhere in the area. That fall we worked on Bach — the French Suites, because they would teach me to play gracefully, she said. In Whitechapel the atmosphere was festive. Arm raised above his head, he gave me a slow, exaggerated salute, as if he were hailing shore from a ship that was about to depart. And at first glance Thompson is one of the least likely suspects imaginable. The author, an Australian schoolteacher named Richard Patterson, was an amateur sleuth who was pretty clearly excited by the thought of solving one of history’s greatest mysteries, and he was willing to indulge in a lot of irresponsible speculation to make his case. It was magical. The threshold between life and death was a place Thompson visited again and again in his poems. He lives in Los Angeles. Where else could you hear a literal act of forgetting? She was an alcoholic, herself intermittently homeless; she’d lived in and out of workhouses. He had in fact, according to Patterson, begged his father for more money so he could afford more bodies to dissect. ¤
Brian Phillips is the author of the essay collection   Impossible Owls,   forthcoming in 2018 from Farrar, Straus & Giroux. He’d have hated me for it. Mrs. Even in the Christian masterworks, you find disturbing overtones. I saw his eyes go out of focus as the first dose of laudanum kicked in. She’d raise a hand to stop my sight-reading, give me small lectures on fingerings and voicings. A white sheet covered him to the chest. K. You had to be able to sustain multiple ideas, multiple processes, and develop them simultaneously, in all their complexity. “Perfect” recordings of the Italian Concerto existed by the dozens, I reasoned; only this one offered that strange, fleeting glimpse into Richter’s mental experience.  
2. It was after one o’clock when she left the boarding house. She didn’t have fourpence for the bed. Phillips, the police surgeon who attended three of the Ripper’s murder scenes and four of the subsequent autopsies, thought the killer must have had medical training, due to the precision with which the victims’ organs were removed. He’d been there all along; I hadn’t seen him because his bed was angled to face into the room, and so was partly hidden from the doorway. He issued an apology in the liner notes of a CD he released on the Italian label Stradivarius in 1991 — an astonishing thing for a pianist of his stature to do, to flagellate himself publicly over a slip Bach himself might not have worried about. She went by Polly. “The Hound of Heaven,” Thompson’s most celebrated poem, depicts a wayward sinner’s flight from, and eventual surrender to, God’s love. Thompson was in his late 20s. (In fact he seems to have had a nervous breakdown at around the time he left medical school.) On the second level, though, the story helped build the case that Thompson was a murderer. Things slip. Yet with me she was patient. Such a spectacle! At 32, Polly Nichols’s roommate, Ellen Holland, ran into her at the corner of Whitechapel Road and Osborne Street. When she was a girl, the oil mansions were still being built. Every so often thin lights would stretch along the wall and I’d hear the long sigh of a car sliding past on Grand; otherwise it was ticking-clock quiet. “We unwinking see / Through the smoked glass of Death,” he wrote in one, and in another:
O world invisible, we view thee,
O world intangible, we touch thee,
O world unknowable, we know thee,
Inapprehensible, we clutch thee! Look what a jolly new bonnet I’ve got, Mary Ann Nichols sang when she was kicked out of her lodging house. I saw him praying till his hands shook. There was some question about what finger to use for the pivotal note in a run. Students never saw him. Massive buildings burned. Before long I was reading the book on two levels. They sent him to a priory in Sussex to recover from his laudanum dependency. In fact it had been while playing Bach that I realized I loved classical music, one day when our seventh-grade orchestra was rehearsing the Little Fugue in G minor and I suddenly felt (I think the trombones had just come in) as though my brain were a cloud of fine golden particles through which sunlight was streaming. Richter was a perfectionist, not inclined to self-forgiveness, and he believed that the purpose of his playing was to serve the composer’s intention absolutely. He’d had little success as a poet. Some time before, he had fallen in love with a young prostitute, whom he credited with saving his life. What I liked was to improvise, preferably at ear-bursting volume, in a mode inspired by the exquisite but agonizing passions of the tragic lovers in Merchant-Ivory movies I’d seen, and also in Merchant-Ivory movies I hadn’t seen, Merchant-Ivory movies that existed only in my imagination, where trembling hands were forever pouring glasses of brandy from cut-crystal decanters in front of hotel windows looking out across Constantinople, while the curtains blew in, filmily. The case against Thompson is purely circumstantial. She was elderly now, but there were moments when she talked about music with an expression at once so hard and so far away that even I understood she was looking into a realm I had never conceived of, much less visited. Alright, but there were plenty of men around after the fire — she’d earn it on the street. What happened during the previous hour no one knows, except that her throat was cut. He slept in shelters within walking distance of where the murders took place. It’s not known precisely where, though he surely would have seen the fire. Remember that an allemande is a dance. Which is a beautiful notion, until you look at it from a certain angle, at which point it becomes completely terrifying. Without quite knowing why, I’d been listening for days to Bach’s Italian Concerto, repeating again and again the slow second movement, with the dirge of its left-hand part and the clear, cold aria of the right hand. He grew up near Manchester, in the village of Ashton-under-Lyne, where he was known as a frail, taciturn, bookish boy, unpopular with other children. I found the book, turned around to go back, and stopped, because the old man was in the room with me. This had the effect of awakening in me an intense pity toward the poet, who suffered terribly in his time. I wasn’t too thrilled about the French Suites. He’s serious and celestial. My lessons took place at night. Mrs. “I figured it out,” I announced. I never had a music teacher who was more distrustful of memory. But to her way of thinking, it was dangerous to spend too much time away from the objective record of the printed page. He entered a medical college and studied to be a surgeon, but he failed his exams repeatedly, again disappointing his family. — to register a harmonic shift. A few months ago, in a friend’s back garden in Los Angeles, I found myself paging through a book about the English Catholic poet Francis Thompson, who lived from 1859 to 1907. Patterson had some evidence to suggest that during childhood, Thompson demonstrated a pattern of lighting fires and cutting open dolls, behavior that could be taken as an early indicator of psychopathic tendencies. To me, though, there was something irresistible in that false note sustained over decades, the f-sharp played instead of f-natural, the tiny broken stitch between Bach’s unchanging reality and the fluid world of an artist’s mind in performance. Poverty ground him hard: soon he was sleeping on sidewalks. Then he straightened his elbow and I realized what he was doing. Thompson is talking about the gulf between our world and what’s beyond it, and he says this gulf — he calls it a “crevasse” — is spanned by “Pontifical Death.” In two words, Thompson imagines death both as a bridge (a pont is a bridge, a pontifex is a bridge-builder) and as a high priest supervising the crossing over it. The bed was raised so that he could partly sit up. That was what Mrs. I thought of the word “macabre,” which made me think of Poe, and the word “eldritch,” which I knew from Lovecraft (“the eldritch scurrying of those fiend-born rats”), and also from Dungeons & Dragons. She had standards, in other words. When Richter realized what he’d done, he didn’t find it “humanizing”; he was devastated. Mrs. On the first level, I responded only to the facts about Thompson’s life. She was 43 years old. You feel, when Richter is playing, as if this music will be heard once, and then dissolve forever. Thompson sat beside the bench, in her spindle-backed chair, wearing the big hexagonal glasses with their slender, drooping chain, and I sat on the bench, trying to coax my fingers into decoding the music I had once again failed to practice, and the brass lamp shone under its green shade on the upright, and in the windows stood a darkness that seemed to cut us off from the rest of creation, as if the studio were a kind of spaceship in which we were traveling. Flames visible for miles. We entered the studio through a separate door, around back, and were never invited beyond, into the mysterious interior, where he was understood to dwell. None of that occurred to me then. That was the case, for instance, with the issue of Thompson’s education. The outward action was the same in each, but the meanings were different. Whitechapel, in London’s East End, was then one of the city’s poorest districts. Often this split consciousness meant that a single piece of information registered with me in two directly opposed ways. His face was so thin it was as if it had been whittled down from a different person’s face. (G. It was nothing, but at the same time it was everything, and it was irreversible. It overfilled her filing cabinets; stacks of it slouched on chairs and in the spaces under end tables. (And there it was, in the recording — the misplaced note, the false f.) That was the last time a witness saw her alive, though strangely, when her body was discovered an hour later, at 3:40 a.m., in the doorway of a stable, the carters who found her were unsure whether she was dead. You can guess, then, how disorienting it was to read about Thompson’s time in Whitechapel at the time of the five Ripper murders, in the late summer and fall of 1888. She frowned but never criticized. This is a suite of dances. Now, from a distance of time, I think of what the duty of caring for him must have meant for Mrs. I had no frame of reference for Bach’s superb contemplativeness. “Yes, but also no. In medical school he’d gotten addicted to opium, and he was now living as a homeless vagrant in Whitechapel’s warren of narrow streets. Here was the file cabinet. In fact the impulse went deeper. A metal stand with some sort of dangling clear sack stood beside the bed and was connected to it — to him — by tubes. Which meant you had to be able to get above yourself, to listen not just in the emotional thrall of the moment but with a kind of cosmic detachment. She herself had studied with famous musicians, had lived in Chicago, had known something of the world beyond our barren patch of north-central Oklahoma. Thompson collected sheet music. I know how that sounds, and you’re right to be skeptical. (It was at this time, Patterson notes, that the Ripper murders ceased.) Soon, with the Meynells’ help, he began to win fame as a poet. He had spent hours in the college basement cutting up corpses. I felt something move in her chest, one of them said. He said he used it to shave. It was clear that Thompson had been under extreme pressure to pursue a career for which he was temperamentally unsuited, and I could easily imagine the anxiety, the lying to his father, the rising panic as he realized he was again bound to come up short, would again be revealed as inadequate. On the question of Thompson’s fire-starting and doll-mutilation, for example. The air was warm and had a stale-apricot, old-potpourri smell. He was waving back at me. Mrs. The editors’ son, Everard Meynell, wrote a book about him. Thompson remembered him from life. ho! Mrs. So the idea that, invisibly near, there was someone so much older; and that he was on the threshold between life and death, frozen there, somehow, for the old man had lain dying for years … It struck a note not at all like a Mozart allegretto. Thompson might as well have asked me to learn a different instrument. How it must have reordered her life. Not because I had anything against Bach. It’s when I think about this threshold that I’m most strongly reminded of a passage written about Thompson many years later. The horizon a red glow. I don’t remember why that was — possibly I’d asked for a late hour, to keep from cutting into my all-important regimen of time-wasting after school — but I remember the slight feeling of eeriness it created, the oddness of being in a place long familiar in the daytime but subtly transformed in the dark. Chesterton called him “the greatest poetic energy since Browning.”) He also — this was the thesis of the book I was reading — might have been Jack the Ripper. She left him shortly before the Ripper began murdering prostitutes. I saw him slicing into the pale abdomen of a corpse at the medical college. He’d memorized the piece in his youth, but one tiny error had crept in, an f-sharp instead of an f-natural in the 47th measure of the second movement, the andante. She needed this private library, she said, because she liked to consult alternate fingerings. She’d been stockpiling it for decades. I was 17. On the second level, I responded to the alternate reality conjured up by Patterson, in which Thompson was in fact Jack the Ripper. The hallucinatory violence and barely controlled mania of some of his drafts from this period are startling:
And its paunch was rent
Like a brasten drum;
And the blubbered fat
From its belly doth come
With a sickening ooze — Hell made it so! In his youth he trained to enter the priesthood. After a hesitation, I said hello and gave him an awkward little wave. Then one day he returned home with a letter from the seminary college informing his father that it was God’s will that he should look for a different career. Playing gracefully wasn’t my strong suit. He stares out of a gaunt face with large, haunted eyes.