Gabriel Fauré’s Requiem, in seven gentle movements.
By Gerald Kamens
Introït et Kyrie (Lord, Have Mercy)
On this Friday night in the summer of 1992, the work starts slowly. The orchestra begins, playing alone for just one measure before the large choir, behind the musicians, softly enters the drama, requesting, in Church Latin, eternal rest and lasting light for the soul of the departed one—possibly a deceased parent or other family member, or, maybe, some long-ago king or potentate.
I sit alone, crouched down in an end chair in the last row of this ancient cathedral—John Calvin’s long ago church home—far back from the performers. I’m not supposed to be here. I’m just a worn-down American, clandestinely absorbing the sublime music rising from these intense, earnest Swiss men and women. They’re mostly young, though there’s some gray hair here and there, and mostly dressed in jeans and chinos, for this is a rehearsal. The scores of singers and instrumentalists are preparing for the real performance—which will take place on Monday, since rehearsals, as I have discovered, are not allowed in the cathedral on Saturdays and Sundays. Alas, I can’t be there on Monday. My work in Geneva has concluded, and I return to Washington, and my family, tomorrow.
This first movement ends with the choir calling to Christ several times, first urgently, then more quietly, until, finally, there is a very soft request for mercy.
Offertoire (Offerings)
The choir sings, “May the lasting light shine for them,” and “Free the souls of the departed from eternal punishment and the deep lake.” Heavy stuff.
Nobody seems to care that I’ve snuck, through a side door, into this cathedral, trailing the singers and instrumentalists as they arrived in buses, cabs, and private cars. The only other non-performers visible to me are two gray-haired women meticulously sweeping the worn stone floor behind me. Down in front, a young baritone soloist is singing, beseeching God, all in Church Latin of course, to make departed souls transcend from death to life. His singing reminds me, also a baritone, of how and why I got to this place tonight.
The choir voices again pray that the departed souls may not fall into darkness.
Sanctus (Holy)
The choir gives praise in the highest to the departed one.
I suppose I’m feeling a bit sorry for myself. I can’t imagine anyone giving me much praise for my labors these last four weeks, at the old League of Nations building in Geneva, that optimistic edificial attempt to attain a world peace that never came. I’m wrapping up my monthlong effort to help the US prepare for the forthcoming “Earth Summit”—the 1992 UN Conference on Environment and Development—laboring five days a week on position papers and talking points for use by our high-level delegation to Rio de Janeiro next June. The conference’s stated purpose is “to reconcile worldwide economic development with protection of the environment.” It has been a painstaking task for us who have toiled in the Geneva vineyards: endless wordsmithing and syntactical haggling punctuated by often-combative evening forums with other countries’ delegations.
A dreamy harp floats to the fore, then the organ, before the sopranos and altos join in, singing Holy.
Pie Jesu (Holy Jesus)
Again the choir asks for “eternal rest.”
I go over again in my head how I got here tonight. One of my fellow worker bees said she’d read in a Geneva paper—her French was much better than mine—that there’d be a rehearsal the next night, at some church, of a choir singing Fauré’s Requiem.
In years past, I’d sung that Requiem in my church choir back home. I even knew what the Latin words meant in English. I also knew that baritones were sometimes in short supply in choral groups. So, with enormous chutzpah, I figured maybe I could ask this singing group if I, a visiting American baritone, could join their rehearsal for one night.
Once I found the “church,” I discovered it was actually the immense and ancient Cathédrale Saint-Pierre. Next to its locked front door was a sign in French announcing the Monday performance of Fauré’s Requiem by the Orchestre de la Suisse Romande, one of the world’s leading international orchestras. Mortified, I decided I must flee this place as quickly as possible. But, at the last minute, hearing faint strains of voices inside, I changed my mind and decided to don a cloak of invisibility, attempting to creep undetected into the building.
Agnus Dei (Lamb of God)
“Light eternal shine for them.”
I study the bright, attentive faces of the young men and women in the choir. Not looking at all lazy, they seem about the same age, which makes me suspect they’re a chorus from a local university or music conservatory—often where professional orchestras, like this one, get their choruses. At the age of 19, I sang, with the Penn Glee Club, in the chorus of Beethoven’s glorious Ninth Symphony, in German, with the Philadelphia Orchestra, and, later that year, again with that Orchestra, in the chorus of a concert version of Carmen. But my singing career was all downhill, prestige-wise, after that.
Libera Me (Free Me, God)
The baritone soloist sings alone. “Free me, Lord, from eternal death on that terrible day when the heavens will move and the earth will be shaken, when you come to judge the world with fire.” The choir then sings, “I am trembling,” followed by a very loud exclamation: “Day of wrath.”
Earlier in the week, I had taken part in a heated debate with representatives of Zimbabwe, India, and a few other countries. Some nations wanted to explicitly articulate a world goal of eradicating poverty within 25 years. Speaking for the US, on instruction from my bosses, I said such a goal was impossible and unwise to promise. Afterward, the Indian government delegate conceded to me in private that he knew that goal was impossible, but that the people of his country needed to hear it. To give them hope. I emerged from the whole discussion thoroughly depressed.
The choir ends softly, singing, “May the light always shine.” Finally, the soloist and the choir again repeat, “Free me, God.”
In Paradisum (In Paradise)
The choir sings, to conclude the Requiem, “May angels lead you to paradise.”
I wonder, not for the first time, about the meaning of this word. What did paradise signify for the deceased individual for whom this Requiem was composed? What does it mean for these singers, and the players in the Orchestre de la Suisse Romande on this night? What does it mean for me? I come to no conclusion, for, as my churchgoing mother-in-law once told my wife, nobody really knows what happens after you die.
As I listen to the soaring words, tears suddenly fill my eyes. I suddenly realize how emotionally parched I’ve been feeling these last few days in Geneva. Is this why I ended up here tonight—not to sing a baritone part but seeking instead simply to be liberated by this glorious music?
Finally, the choir sings, gently, about finding “eternal rest.” It is over.
Donning again my cloak of hopeful invisibility, I hasten down a side aisle to a rear door exit, getting there before the performers. Outside, hailing a nearby cab back to my hotel room, I finish packing for my departure tomorrow, fortified by a few glasses of cheap red wine.
Gerald Kamens C’56 has worked in a mental hospital, the White House, the US Senate, and the Office of the Secretary of Defense but spent most of his government career in the US Agency for International Development, focused successively on Southeast Asia, the Middle East, and global environmental issues.
