Jacqueline du Pré: A Voice Beyond the Strings
Jacqueline du Pré communicated with the same vibrancy she brought to her cello. Like her music, her words were intimate, alive, and tinged with an ever-present honesty that left no room for artifice. Friends often remarked that she spoke in “musical phrases”—her sentences carrying crescendos of excitement and diminuendos of quiet reflection.
Jacqueline wrote with childlike affection to her dear friend and collaborator, Daniel Barenboim. “Danny,” she scribbled in a letter during a long tour, “I miss the piano’s conversation. I miss you more. Play Brahms and think of me, won’t you?” Barenboim, who became her husband, cherished her playful yet soulful expressions of love. Her passion transcended her words and settled in the silences between them.
With friends like conductor Zubin Mehta and violinist Pinchas Zukerman, she shared a sparkling wit and boundless warmth. “Oh, you boys are far too serious,” she teased after a rehearsal. “Music isn’t just played; it’s felt. Smile!” Her casual lightheartedness belied the gravitas she brought to their performances. Even so, Jacqueline’s laughter could calm tensions and remind them why they devoted themselves to music.
Jacqueline’s vulnerability surfaced most vividly in her letters to her sister, Hilary. “Sometimes the cello feels heavier than I can bear,” she confided, “but then, I think of a note so pure it carries me.”
When her illness robbed her of performance, Jacqueline’s correspondence deepened. Her words were her new instrument. To friends, lovers, and family, she shared her thoughts as though dictating symphonies—grief tempered by hope.
Jacqueline du Pré’s relationships were symphonic—complex, layered, and unforgettable. Her love for people and music echoed long after her voice and strings fell silent. Her words, like her melodies, played on.
