A Requiem to Die For

Requiems are for the living. They shape our attitude toward death. What should we expect? Peace and serenity, or terror and judgment? Heaven or hell? It depends on the composer.

In their Requiems, Hector Berlioz and Giuseppe Verdi frighten us with rafter-shaking, apocalyptic visions of the Dies Irae. Just as composing symphonies became a problem after Beethoven, writing Requiems after Berlioz and Verdi posed similar challenges. They are impossible to top eschatalogically.

In his far more pacific portrayal, French composer Maurice Durufle, like his teacher, Gabriel Faure, decided not even to try to depict the end of the world. Durufle consoles and comforts us, not only by deleting the Dies Irae altogether from his Requiem, but by depicting death as the joyous entry into an eternity of rest. The agony is over. Be not afraid. Given my druthers, I would die with Durufle.

His Requiem from 1947 originated in a suite of organ pieces based on plainsong from the Mass for the Dead. He expanded these into the Requiem when he received a commission from Durand publishers. The Requiem is listed as Opus 9, which would normally indicate that it is an early work. No, in his lifetime the meticulous Durufle was to publish only a dozen works, mostly all for organ. The Requiem is his chef d’oeuvre.

To distinguish Durufle’s Requiem from those of Verdi and Berlioz is not to say that it is devoid of drama, but rather to place it within the tradition in which Durufle was working. The scale of his conception was constrained by the plainchant on which the piece was based, even though the work itself gained in richness from its use. Add to plainchant the sensuous harmonies of Debussy and Ravel, which Durufle had learned so well, and you have a dreamily mesmerizing combination, simultaneously modern and archaic. As Durufle wrote, “In general, I have attempted to penetrate to the essence of Gregorian style and have tried to reconcile, as far as possible, the very flexible Gregorian rhythms as established by the Benedictines of Solesmes with the exigencies of modern notation.” For its time, however, Durufle’s work was considered reactionary. Recall that this man was a fellow student and friend of avant-garde composer Olivier Messiaen, yet Durufle’s work could easily have been written at the time of Faure’s Requiem, fifty years earlier.

Durufle’s Requiem opens very dreamily. Gentle orchestral undulations underlie the smoothly flowing plainchant of the Introit. The requested peace has already been granted. The Kyrie confirms this. It not so much asks for mercy as celebrates it. Finally, in the Offertorium, one glimpses the inferno from which the soul has been saved. Dissonances depict the “punishments of hell.” But even the request for deliverance is almost triumphant. Then St. Michael arrives almost as sleep might, in a moment of hushed lyricism, to lead the soul into heavenly light. The Sanctus begins with another repeated rippling figure in the orchestra, closely related to that of the Introit, which gives one the impression of being carried forward on gentle waves. The Sanctus slowly builds to a triple-forte climax at “Hosanna in excelsis,” then subsides peacefully back into the rippling moto perpetuo with which it began. The Pie Jesu is a very poignant, gentle supplication, the point of repose at the heart of the work. The Agnus Dei restores a sense of motion and confidence that the requiem sempiternam has been granted. The Lux Aeterna evokes what that eternal rest might be like.

In short, Durufle’s Requiem is dramatic but not apocalyptic, sweet but not confectionery. It benefits from the most attractive features of the French aesthetic: lightness of touch; refinement; delicacy. Durufle succeeded in his desire to avoid the “excessive” settings of his predecessors, and produced one of the most beautifully lyrical, comforting liturgical works of our century.

Durufle fashioned three versions of the Requiem to meet the practical necessities of church performance: one for full orchestra; one for chamber orchestra; and a bare bones version for organ and cello. All, of course, include chorus. He left optional whether certain parts of the text were to be taken by soloists or full choir. His own thoughts leave little doubt as to which of the three versions he least preferred: “the reduction for solo organ (and choir) may prove inadequate in certain parts of the Requiem where the expressive timbre of the strings is needed.”

His opinion is reinforced by a recent Hyperion release [CDA66757] of the solo organ and cello version performed by the Westminster Cathedral Choir led by James O’Donnel. It is Durufle “Lite.” It is almost like listening to a piano reduction of a Beethoven symphony. It does not do the work justice. Arguments over the sense of intimacy gained lose when compared to the orchestral loss. After all, Durufle, an organist, would not have bothered composing for full orchestra if he thought the king of instruments could convey his meaning. I cannot imagine anyone but a specialist being drawn to this recording. And even a specialist might be put off by a certain lack of drama in O’Donnel’s conception.

One should look elsewhere. The interim chamber orchestra version is admirably presented on another, earlier Hyperion release [CDA66191] with the English Chamber Orchestra and the Corydon Singers, directed by Matthew Best. This one not only conveys much of the Requiem’s impact, but Best’s excellent soloists are most expressive. Thomas Allen shows how powerful and moving the baritone part can be sung over the solo organ and then the naked strings in the Domine Jesu Christe. It is quite chilling and effective.

Nonetheless, the glory and sensuousness of the full orchestral version immediately beguile the listener in a Telarc offering [CD-80135] from the late 1980s, featuring Robert Shaw and the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra and Chorus in a superb performance. Listen to this recording next to the new Hyperion, and you will find it hard to believe it is the same work. The choral perfection at which Shaw aims is well suited to a liturgical work of this nature. Perfection, or at least the illusion of perfection, creates a sense of distance—precisely the quality required by a reflective work of this kind that becomes, ironically, all the more moving for it. Its pristine beauty shines forth. Shaw’s orchestra is equally impressive. The balance between chorus and orchestra could hardly be better. This is simply one of the most beautiful choral recordings I have ever heard, and it has the added advantage of being paired with a lovely performance of Faure’s Requiem.

Author

  • Robert R. Reilly

    Robert R. Reilly is the author of America on Trial: A Defense of the Founding, forthcoming from Ignatius Press.

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