‘Fauré? Ah, yes, I love the Requiem. And there’s that lovely Pavane too …” This is the typical reply to the question: “Do you like the music of Gabriel Fauré?” But it’s about as satisfactory a response as would be, to a similar question about Beethoven: “Oh yes! There’s that great symphony – the one that goes da-da-da DAA.”

Glorious though Fauré’s Requiem and Pavane are (along with his other best-known works, such as the first violin sonata and first piano quartet), there are whole other worlds to his music that deserve to be far better known. Luckily, 2024 marks the centenary of Fauré’s death, which gives us Fauréans a wonderful opportunity to share with audiences his lesser-known masterpieces.

Gabriel Urbain Fauré was born on 12 May 1845 in the village of Pamiers, in south-western France. A lonely childhood was largely spent playing alone in a beautiful meadow outside his house; in the middle of this meadow was a chapel. Elements of both these features – the beauties of nature, and the peace and tranquillity of worship – were to become crucial aspects of Fauré’s music.

Sent to the Niedermeyer school – an institution specialising in early church music – at the age of nine, the boy’s musical education was entrusted to a brilliant if irascible young man with a huge nose, Camille Saint-Saëns. The two became friends for life, Saint-Saëns – whose own two little sons were to die within six weeks of each other – taking a fatherly role in the life of his younger protege.

Growing up, the quietly charming Fauré fitted perfectly into the elegant, highly artistic world of the Parisian salons, where many of his works received their first hearings; an observer remembered him “moving at his ease among the milling crowds, a blissful smile on his face like an Olympian deity”. (Marcel Proust, among countless others, became a devoted fan.) Life was not all roses, though. Fauré suffered from acute migraines and bouts of depression. Furthermore, his career as a composer failed to take off to the level it so richly deserved, forcing him for many years to earn his living as a church organist.

It wasn’t until his early 60s that he finally landed a major position, as head of the Paris conservatoire. There the gentle composer astounded everyone by introducing drastic reforms, sweeping away the crusty traditions that had reigned for generations. (As a young boy, I knew an old gentleman who had studied there during Fauré’s tenure; “his influence was everywhere,” he affirmed.) Alas, by that time another problem was threatening Fauré’s equilibrium: he was losing his hearing. His deafness was to become profound, with all that that change entails – particularly for a musician.

At least there were compensations in his private life – albeit with a rather French twist. His marriage, in his late 30s, to Marie Frémiet produced two sons, one of whom became a famous biologist, the other a writer. His relationship to Marie, however, seems to have lacked passion – though the couple remained close until the end of Fauré’s life, Marie becoming a musical confidante in whom he seems to have had absolute trust – she would kiss his manuscript paper to bring him luck.

But Fauré looked for other outlets for his romantic energies. Among his lovers, for some years, was Emma Bardac, who was later married to Debussy. And for the last 25 years of his life, Fauré was in a close relationship with a pianist, Marguerite Hasselmans. She was apparently the finest interpreter of his music; frustratingly, there seem to be no recordings of her playing. On his deathbed in 1924 the composer begged his sons to look after Marguerite, who despite the very public nature of their relationship, was officially invisible. Thankfully, the two men did just that.

So to the music: what is so special about Fauré? How can one explain the unique magic of his art? And why is much of his music, if not his name, so little known, compared with that of his younger compatriots Debussy and Ravel (the latter a student of Fauré’s)?

It’s a tricky question. Despite his innate modesty, Fauré knew his own worth. In a cross letter to the pianist Alfred Cortot (a great musician, but an opportunistic careerist), chiding him for performing so much of Debussy and Ravel’s music while neglecting his, Fauré inquired of Cortot why he was “more modest on my behalf than I am myself?”

Perhaps the reason lies at least partly in Fauré’s dislike of self-aggrandising display, and the immense subtlety of his nature, both personal and musical. (“I’m not in the habit of attracting crowds”, as he told a friend.) Whereas Debussy and Ravel – like so many of their Parisian contemporaries across all the arts – proclaimed their originality in no uncertain terms, producing works with extra-musical, visually or nationally oriented titles that were arresting in themselves (La Cathédrale Engloutie, Le Gibet), Fauré’s extraordinary originality was almost entirely contained within outwardly traditional forms. As the perceptive critic Émile Vuillermoz (1878-1960) put it: “To love and understand Fauré, one must at all costs have a musical nature. Fauré is pure music … It is no good bringing anything in the way of painter’s or sculptor’s gifts to listen to him … Under its apparent classicism, [Fauré’s music] contains the most magnificently revolutionary audacities.”

He’s so right. Particularly in his later works – in which Fauré, like Beethoven before him, having been deprived of the outer world of sound, created his own, ecstatically radiant aural universe – the quiet shock of his extreme harmonies still has the power to make us gasp. As with Beethoven, the creations of his last period contain even deeper subtleties than the (perhaps) more outwardly attractive earlier works. And also corresponding to the older German master (whom Fauré, unlike many of the French composers of his time, revered), Fauré’s music, despite his increasingly poor health never strays anywhere near self-pity or depression. His avowed intention was to show through his music a reality better than our own – and how he succeeds. There is a joy, an energy, a luminous quality to his output that is unique.

Fauré’s music uplifts – and moves us deeply. The French musicologist and Fauré’s contemporary Joseph de Marliave expresses it well when he wrote that the simplicity of Fauré’s music “is so great that it can surprise us before it touches and moves us”. Absolutely true: often in rehearsals I have found that it is the seemingly artless touches – some unassuming passing notes in the slow movement of the second piano quintet, for instance, or the unadorned rising scale that forms the second main theme of the string quartet (his last work) – that suddenly bring tears to the eyes.

Since being introduced as a child to his music Fauré has been an important presence in my life. In fact, he has been something of a benevolent if absent godfather, playing a surprisingly big role in many of the important relationships in my life – it’s no coincidence that my son is named Gabriel. The current festival at London’s Wigmore Hall gives me a rare and precious opportunity to play his entire chamber music output with musician-friends for whom Fauré is a similarly central figure. It is our way of offering thanks for all the blessings he has bestowed on us.

Beyond the Requiem: Steven Isserlis’s five favourite Fauré works

Cantique de Racine Fauré was still a teenager – still at school, in fact – when he wrote this meltingly beautiful choral song.
Theme and variations for piano, op 73 Fauré’s only “official” set of variations, this is a winner.
Clair de Lune, Mandoline There are so many glorious Fauré songs that it’s impossible to pick just one; I find these two especially touching.
Piano trio op 120 If I had to choose one piece by Fauré – thank God I don’t – this would have to be it. Ecstatic hardly begins to describe it …
String quartet, op 121 Fauré’s farewell to life, his last work – profound, gentle, deeply moving; and ultimately joyous.