Steven Isserlis

So here’s the article – and farewell, Radu; and thank you for all the joy, as well as the tears, that you gave us.

Radu Lupu – a personal journey.

Radu Lupu – what an artist, what a man.

I had known the name for almost as long as I can remember, my parents and sisters having been fans since his triumph at the Leeds Piano Competition in 1969; but I remember distinctly the moment I myself became a fan. Then in my late teens or very early twenties. I went to Cambridge, to play a concert of piano trios with two friends. The violinist, who was living there at the time, needed something from her room, and invited me up while the pianist waited for us in her car; there can’t have been much sense of urgency, because the violinist – a dyed-in-the-wool Lupu-ite – put on some music as I waited for her to get her things. It was a record of Radu playing the Schubert A minor sonata D784; she just wanted to play me the beginning, to demonstrate his artistry. The next thing I remember is the pianist storming in, understandably annoyed, demanding to know what on earth we were doing. I really didn’t know where we’d been – I’d been so transfixed by the playing that time had seemed to stop. The sensitivity, the profound understanding, the sense that we were being told a story narrated directly from the innermost depths of both composer and performer – I’d never heard anything quite like it. From that point on, I was hooked.

Being a fan and being a friend are rather different things, however. Although I met Radu a few times – he was living in London in those days, and we had several mutual friends – I can’t say that I really got to know him; I was struck, though, by the special affection with which everyone talked about him. Later, I struck lucky: on two separate occasions, we happened to be in Japan at the same time, staying in the same hotel. Japan is a place where musicians tend to get to know each other quite well, since we are often left by ourselves for considerable amounts of time, and there is delicious food to be eaten. And so it was that I got to know Radu – not intimately, but quite well. It was impossible not to be drawn into his magnetic field – partly because he was apparently quite unaware of his magnetism. Most famous musicians, no matter how sympathetic, accrue an aura of confidence, of belief in their own importance, at least to the young musicians they meet. Not Radu. In fact, his absolutely genuine modesty – extending at times to painful self-doubt – could be exasperating! (Important though it was to his artistry – his vulnerability spoke to his listeners’ souls.) if the talk came round to musical performance, he would invariably either criticise himself in the harshest terms, or praise others, frequently exaggeratedly. I remember talking with him about a young pianist who was making quite a splash at the time. ‘Hmm…I prefer you,’ I said. ‘I prefer her,’ said Radu – and he meant it! (Mad.) His disregard for his own health was a bit alarming, too. Once we were having lunch in the hotel restaurant. Radu, to my surprise, ordered a salad. ‘Ha – healthy for once!’ I said – foolishly. Radu immediately cancelled the order. Far outweighing any frustration, though, was the delight of getting to know him, and experiencing his warmth, kindness and generosity, as well as his humour, his deep laugh a constant in his conversation.

I also got to hear him in Tokyo once, playing a wonderfully unusual programme including not just Beethoven’s last sonata – masterly – but also a sonata by Enescu. The greatest musical memory I have of him around that time, however, is from London, when he unexpectedly stood in at short notice for a gala concert at the Wigmore Hall (in which he hadn’t played for some 15 years), playing the Schubert Bb sonata, D 960. Nobody who was lucky enough to be at that concert has ever forgotten it; it was nothing short of a revelation. From first note to last, we went on a journey from heaven to hell, and back. At the end, it was as if we’d returned from another world. Even Radu grudgingly admitted afterwards that something special had happened.

So I was a starry-eyed fan who had got to know his hero – a thrill in itself; but I still didn’t dare ask him to play anything with me. I did once manage to ask him very hypothetically whether he might possibly do some chamber music in the future; ‘I might,’ he said, which gave me some hope. And once after he’d given a recital at a festival in Gloucestershire, with which I was involved, he suddenly suggested – at about midnight, when I’d had a couple of glasses of wine – that we play together for fun. So, until around 2 am, we played excerpts from the cello repertoire from memory, with an audience of five – two of whom were fast asleep. But I didn’t want to create an uncomfortable situation by asking him to do a concert with me, because I knew how much he hated to hurt anyone’s feelings. I did, however, find an opportunity to ask him to play for me, if not with me. My 50th birthday was approaching, and John Gilhooly, director of the Wigmore Hall, asked if I’d like to celebrate it at the hall. ‘Yes, if I can get Radu Lupu and Andras Schiff to take part – and if I can just listen, and not play myself,’ was my considered answer. I asked Andras – an old friend – and asked if he might play the Schubert F minor Fantasia for piano duet with Radu. He sounded very pleased by the idea – although they had been friends and mutual admirers for years, they’d never played together; so I plucked up my courage and invited Radu. ‘Yes – I’d like to do that!’ was his unexpected reply. I was dumbstruck. Later, I must have gained in courage, because I asked him, in addition to playing anything solo by Schumann, and the Schubert, to accompany Felicity Lott and Mark Padmore in songs by Haydn and Faure; and to my amazement, he agreed! It was a memorable concert – including Radu’s magical, transporting performance of Schumann’s Kinderszenen.

Ten years passed, in which I got to know Radu somewhat better, as well as becoming friends with his wife Delia, a wonderfully warm and strong character who is a perfect foil to Radu – and he to her. I still didn’t dare to ask him to play anything with me, however. But come my 60th birthday, John Gilhooly again invited me to celebrate it at the Wigmore Hall – with the proviso that this time I would play something too. So – especially since I knew that Radu was by now talking of retiring – I decided to screw up my courage and ask him. I went ahead and asked whether he would take part in the concert, playing a solo of his choosing, some more Schubert with Andras – and some Schumann (the Romances opus 94) with me. And again – he agreed!

There was more, too: I occasionally direct orchestras from the cello, and – hoping that I was now on a roll – told Radu that one of my dreams would be to direct Mozart’s great A major concerto K488 with him as soloist. He said that in principle, he’d like to do it. A dream that had a chance of becoming true! I told my friend Numa Bischoff-Ullmann, manager of the Lucerne Symphony Orchestra, about it, knowing that if anyone could arrange it, it would be he. Sure enough, not long afterwards, Numa called me in a state of excitement: ‘I can fit the Mozart into a programme next season! There’s just one concert which we haven’t completely fixed yet. And Radu’s free!’ He told me the date. ‘But I have a chamber music concert at the Wigmore that night!’ I wailed. ‘Call John Gilhooly and see if he can change it,’ said Numa firmly. I did so, and John very kindly agreed to change the date; and, to my immense relief, it turned out that all the other five musicians involved in the chamber concert were free on the new date too! It was obviously meant to be.

Radu’s health was a concern, however. My birthday concert was to take place in December 2018. Radu gave a concert in February – and was then forced to cancel every concert for the next nine months. I resigned myself, as did Andras, to the fact that he would have to cancel this concert too. No word came from him, though; I wasn’t sure whether that was a good or bad sign. Two days before the concert, I still hadn’t heard anything, and was panicking; but then there was a call from Delia. ‘What time shall we come for the rehearsal tomorrow?’ ‘Oh – you’re here! I thought you weren’t coming!’ I said. ‘Not come – and not even tell you? You’re crazy,’ she said. Later she admitted to me that Radu’s doctor had advised him to cancel, but he had refused to let me down for my birthday. And they duly turned up, the day before the concert, at my place, where Delia was entertained by my son Gabriel and his girlfriend Amarins, while Radu and I rehearsed. Of course, I was terrified before we started; but I soon noticed that Radu was equally nervous – not about playing with me, of course, but about performing a piece he had hardly ever played before. A few deep-throated curses emanated from the piano as we played through – but I was in ecstasy. To play with that sound behind me! An experience to treasure forever. Afterwards, Radu and Delia took Joanna, my girlfriend, and me for a lovely pre-birthday dinner. And the concert – a 4-hour marathon! – duly took place the next night. The programme proceeded exactly as planned: among many other items, Radu and I played the Schumann Romances, he and Andras played Schubert’s Grand Rondo, and Radu gave an unfathomably beautiful, tragic performance of Brahms’ Intermezzi op 117. (Another participant in the marathon was Ferenc Rados, another musical hero of mine, and Andras’s teacher; Radu and he had never met, and it was a memorable experience to see them interact.)

A couple of months later, Radu gave another rare performance in London, of Beethoven’s G major concerto, with the Philharmonia Orchestra under one of his (and my) favourite conductors, Paavo Jarvi. Again, it was gloriously beautiful, deeply gentle and thoughtful – every note telling a story. The atmosphere was very special, the rapt listeners evidently realising that it was Radu’s farewell to London musical life; at the end, the whole audience rose to its collective feet to pay tribute.

After that, I was looking forward to the Lucerne concert – well, partly. Radu told me that it was going to be his last-ever public performance; apart from the sadness engendered by that prospect, the thought of it made me feel a bit panicky, to put it mildly. Quite a responsibility – what if my directing of the orchestra was so incompetent that I let him down in his last concert? At least he had many other performances scheduled between February and June 21st – the date of the Lucerne concert – to afford him positive musical memories… But then disaster struck: Radu collapsed, and spent a long time in hospital, cancelling all concerts after that London Beethoven performance. I spoke to him, and he sounded pretty lousy, even though he said he was feeling a lot better now. He announced that he was cancelling everything, except his last two scheduled engagements – a tour with Omer Wellber conducting, and then the Lucerne Mozart (at which we were also to play the Schumann Romances again). I spoke to many people, who were pretty pessimistic about him doing even those concerts. Then came the news that he had cancelled the concerts with Omer. It did not look good; and of course who could blame Radu if he had to cancel? Numa and I discussed the possibility of a replacement, but decided that it was best just to pray. Because of the orchestra’s schedule, I had to go to Lucerne a few days early to rehearse. I drove the players mad by spending an hour and a half just on the short tutti sections of the concerto, fussing over detail after detail – in case Radu turned up. The next day, I waited for news, but none came; again – good or bad sign? The night before Radu and Delia were supposed to arrive, Numa and I were together in a restaurant, having just attended a concert, when I saw, with a deeply sinking feeling, that I’d missed a call from Delia. She’d left a message, asking me to call her as soon as possible. Heart thumping, Numa fluttering in the background, I called; and then, to my delight, heard by now my favourite words in the English language: ‘What time do you want us to arrive for the rehearsal tomorrow?’

And turn up they did. We spent some lovely time together; and again, the concert went off just as planned. It felt truly amazing – indescribable – to walk onstage with Radu for such an occasion. The Schumann Romances felt, in fact, more familiar than they had in London. And the Mozart… Of course, my fear was that I would lose him, or at least obstruct him; my hand signals are, I must admit, of little use in keeping anything together. But the orchestra, aware of the importance of the occasion, listened as if their lives depended on it, following Radu’s phrasing as in chamber music. And Radu played like an angel – a soft angel, saying farewell, perhaps; but everything so natural, so simple – Mozart as he should be played (but so rarely is). Finally, another moving Brahms encore – and that was it. With typical lack of announcement or fanfare, Radu had retired. Delia told me that she’d asked him whether he’d been nervous before the concert. ‘No,’ was his characteristic reply. ‘I just wanted it to be over!’

Perhaps he will be induced to return to the platform; but I doubt it. And who would want to force it on him? We have so much for which to be grateful – that a musician of such complete integrity, honesty, depth has given us so much. I wish him the happiest – and longest – of retirements. He deserves it!