Steven Isserlis

It is ten days now since the sad news arrived of the death of the cellist Marius May, in Jerusalem. It’s quite unlikely that musicians now have heard of him (unless they happened to read Norman Lebrecht’s notice); but in his day Marius was a legend, a revered talent, as well as a huge personality. Of the generation of young cellists inspired by the shining example of Jacqueline du Pre (of which I am one), he stood out as the first to reach musical maturity, making a hugely successful Wigmore Hall debut in 1975, and being signed to Decca Records. He had such a strong artistic personality, and could hold an audience in the palm of his hand. Furthermore, he was a deeply serious interpreter, steeped in a great German tradition. But in the end, the career of a solo cellist turned out not to be his path.My very first memory of him – he couldn’t remember this, but I do, albeit rather vaguely – was from the brief time when we were both attending the junior department of the Royal College of Music; we must both have been around 7 years old at the time. (Marius was around 6 months older than I.) I was playing some scary game with other children, and had fallen into the clutches of the enemy team; suddenly Marius – who was on my side – came skidding into the hallway where I was being held, and the other kids scattered immediately in panic. Ha – my hero.

Later, his name was constantly around the London music world. My parents, although not professional performers, were part of a fairly close-knit musical community, in which everybody seemed to know everybody else. Marius’ mother was a well-known violinist called Maria Lidka. She was on the fierce side of un-fierce, I have to say; later she would play string quartets with my father George, and my sisters and I would do impressions ever afterwards of the violent hissing – ‘Ssh – George!’ – which would issue forth repeatedly from the room in which they were playing. But she was a major character, and a very fine musician. Maria had had an extremely hard life, and had been widowed young; it wasn’t surprising that she was a strongly protective, proud mother. Perhaps her pride got the better of her, and she pushed Marius’s career – or allowed it to be pushed – too early. I don’t want to speculate, since I really don’t know any details. But I’m sure that, like many child prodigies, he didn’t have an easy time of it; and he did suffer some sort of breakdown at a certain point.

Nevertheless, when one saw him, he was cheerful, gregarious and great company, with a marvellous sense of humour; and he was so warm – and so kind. I made my own Wigmore Hall debut in 1977. I have always had a habit of making unsuccessful debuts, and that recital was no exception – well, it had a mixed reception at best. The next day, I was feeling thoroughly depressed, when my mother called out to say that there was a phone call for me. I trudged to the phone – it was Marius. At this point, he was practically a household name, to whom I looked up with huge respect (and if I’m honest, envy). He went through the recital, telling me all that he’d liked about it, in a way that I could tell was genuine; I don’t think that anybody else could have cheered me up as much as he did that day. (He even liked Kodaly’s arrangement of 3 Bach Chorale Preludes, that had flopped to such an extent that I’ve never played them again!) He dismissed the mediocre reviews, saying he’d just read them for amusement – in fact, he just couldn’t have been more understanding and comforting. I’ll always be grateful for that – and for many other acts of generosity during the times we spent together. And I’m by no means alone – the lives of many people I knew were helped, or even transformed, by his extreme empathy.

Gradually, though, his own career stopped. I don’t know how much he cared, finally. I’m sure that music was the main thing for him, not success, and he never lost his unique insights into the works he played; but it can’t have been easy. Alas, when he moved to Israel, we lost touch completely. Once, playing there, I managed to get a phone number for him through his brother Simon (a distinguished philosopher). I left a message on the impersonal machine (so I wasn’t absolutely sure I’d dialled the right number), inviting him to a concert in Jerusalem. I wasn’t staying there, unfortunately, so couldn’t suggest anything else. That night, I looked into the audience, and saw somebody who MIGHT just have been Marius, smiling at me; but there was no sign of him afterwards, so I’ll never know. I suspect that going back into the concert world, especially with a cello involved, was probably too painful; perhaps I should have left him in peace. Certainly, he’d cut off relations with almost everybody I knew, leaving for an absolutely new life. I did hear, though, that he had two children, of whom he was immensely proud; and that he still played, if not in public. Indeed, his friend Eric Wen visited him just a few days before he died, and wrote the following, which I found extremely touching:

Even in the final struggle with his horrible disease, he displayed a generosity of spirit, not to mention a keen sense of humour, that was really quite unbelievable. On the day I left Jerusalem, five days before he died, he took out the cello and played a few passages. Despite being laid up in bed and not touching the instrument for weeks, Marius’s inimitable sound, so full of wisdom and intimacy, was still there. It was an unforgettable moment.
When I think back, I realise that it’s 30 years since we had any direct contact – and even before that, I didn’t see him that often; but still, he’s left an indelible impression on my life, as on so many lives. He was unique, with true charisma, both on and off stage, and a wonderful generosity of spirit that touched countless people. Thank you for everything, Marius; and I do hope that the latter part of your life was happy and fulfilling.

(A little post-script: a slightly strange thing happened at the moment that I received the email telling me that he’d died. First of all, I had just finished teaching the Prokofiev sonata; and it struck me that that had been on the programme of the Wigmore Hall recital in 1977. Then, more surprisingly, someone came up and asked me what my bow was – a question I’m very rarely, if ever, asked. ‘Nobody knows,’ I replied, ‘but it’s beautiful.’ And then I suddenly remembered: ‘Marius May discovered it!’ Fanciful, I know; but I’d love to think he was sending a message…)