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A century ago, on November 4, 1924, the composer Gabriel Fauré passed away in Paris. Appreciating and understanding his work “constitutes a privilege from which it is difficult not to derive a sort of innocent pride. It is the mark of a subtle ear, the flattering indication of a refined sensibility.”[1]
Born seventy-nine years earlier in the picturesque town of Pamiers in southwestern France, Gabriel Fauré studied composition at the École Niedermeyer in Paris, counting among his teachers Camille Saint-Saëns († 1921). In 1877, he became the choirmaster at the Madeleine church. In 1896, he became a teacher at the Paris Conservatory, later becoming its director in 1905. Among his direct pupils were illustrious composers such as Maurice Ravel († 1937), Alfredo Casella († 1947), George Enescu († 1955), and Nadia Boulanger († 1979).
Described as “the artist of delicacy and good taste,” Fauré’s oeuvre is characterized by intelligent freedom in forms, daring harmonies, and pure melodic lines.[2] His repertoire spans sacred works, theatrical operas such as Prométhée and Pénélope, ballet and incidental music, symphonic, chamber music, and an extensive collection of Mélodies for voice and piano, along with numerous short piano pieces.
Throughout four decades, from 1865 to 1905, Fauré dedicated himself primarily to sacred music, composing around twenty motets and two masses. Despite being commissioned for specific ceremonies or liturgical needs, Fauré infused each work with a personal and innovative touch. Notably, his famous Requiem, composed between 1887 and 1890 and orchestrated in 1900, represented a departure from conventional funeral compositions. In a 1902 French periodical, he expressed his desire for creative renewal, stating, “I have been accompanying funeral services on the organ for too long! I’ve had enough of it. I wanted to do something new.”[3]
Fauré distinguished himself for his bold vision of sacred music, emphasizing the importance of creative freedom at a time when compositions by individual authors were preferred over the authentic repertoire of the Roman Church, Gregorian chant. This approach allowed artists to fully express their personalities through their compositions. This viewpoint was highlighted after the publication of the motu proprio Tra le sollecitudini (Among the cares), dated November 22, 1903, by which St. Pius X († 1914) “brought about a profound reform in the field of sacred music, restoring the great tradition of the Church to counter the influence of profane music, especially light opera.”[4] On February 15, 1904, Fauré wrote in the French periodical Le Monde musical:
The edict you mention will do nothing to change established habits, at least not in the churches of Paris. Firstly, because, with the best will and the worst taste in the world, the clergy is convinced it was doing the right thing even before this edict was published. And secondly, because there’s an unconscious understanding between the congregation and the clergy, which leads them to see everything as being just as it should be. And also because it’s really rather difficult to demarcate between what is a truly religious style and what isn’t: it’s purely a matter of personal judgment.
Gounod’s religious faith is quite different from Franck’s or Bach’s. Gounod is all heart, and Franck is all spirit. Take the case of Saint Teresa of Avila: her faith is expressed in words whose ardor and passion sometimes spill over into licentiousness. But she was still a saint, and you would not dream of banning her from the Church.
The truth is, this edict isn’t radical enough. The only music we should have in church is plainsong, and it should be sung in unison, given that it dates back to a time when polyphony hadn’t been discovered. To set up religious music of the sixteenth century as an unalterable model is an impossibility. At the period when it was written this music represented an art of extreme luxury and if it seems simple to us today that’s only because of what’s happened to music in the meantime.[5]
His independent stance sometimes brought him into conflict with the dominant musical currents of the time: the clergy and the faithful, who sometimes confused religious fervor with sentimentality, and the “neo-Palestrinian” movement, supported by the Schola Cantorum (founded in 1894 by the composer Vincent d’Indy († 1931), the choral conductor Charles Bordes († 1909), and the organist Alexandre Guilmant († 1911) in Paris, originally as a school of Gregorian chant and later as a higher institute of music).
Despite his dedication to sacred music, Fauré maintained a certain distance from traditional religious practice without embracing atheism. His letters reveal a profound connection to nature and a pantheistic sensibility, reflecting an intimate and personal spirituality. The landscapes of Swiss lakes and Mediterranean coasts served as wellsprings of inspiration for Fauré, providing a means to express his deep gratitude for the world around him.
While Fauré’s religious sentiments may have diverged from the faith of the Church, his Requiem offers a perspective of hope and a signal of consolation in the face of the mystery of death. As he wrote in the aforementioned 1902 article, “Someone called it [my Requiem] a lullaby of death. But that’s the way I perceive death: as a happy release, an aspiration to the happiness of beyond rather than a grievous passage.”[6]
In commemoration of a century since his passing, Gabriel Fauré’s legacy endures as a testament to the transcendent power of music to elevate the human spirit and illuminate the mysteries of existence.
Photo by Scott Rodgerson on Unsplash
[1] E. Vuillermoz, Gabriel Fauré, in La Revue Musicale, October 1922, p. 21.
[2] M. Mila, Breve storia della musica, Turin 1993, p. 244.
[3] Paris-Comœdia, March 3, 1954.
[4] Benedict XVI, Letter to the Grand Chancellor of the Pontifical Institute of Sacred Music on the occasion of the 100th anniversary of its foundation, May 13, 2011.
[5] J.M. Nectoux, Gabriel Fauré: A Musical Life, Cambridge University Press, 2004, p. 110.
[6] Quoted in C. Caballero, Fauré and French musical aesthetics, Cambridge University Press, 2003, p. 189.
