Rule of Three

There are some basics in art that I keep coming back to—little bits of conventional wisdom that a teacher passes on to a student that over time make an impression. That passing down of knowledge first inspired this piece, Rule of Three, both in my own studies and in the three extraordinary musicians I had the privilege to write it for: my wife, Bella Hristova, and her two teachers, Ida Kavafian and Steven Tenenbom.

The “Rule of Three” is an idea probably as old as counting itself. The Rule takes many forms (it’s a cornerstone of joke telling, for instance…) but in music I think of it as presenting an idea, establishing it on the second go around, and then making it again—but the third time, a little different. Really in the simplest way, so much of composing music (or writing a story) is about creating expectation and then fulfilling or denying it. The Rule of Three explores all of that.

There aren’t a lot of pieces for two violins and viola—the one I think of the most is Dvořák’s Terzetto. But the music that I thought of which inspired this piece was Corelli’s body of trio sonatas. And so I’ve woven the great Italian master’s music throughout these short movements, or miniatures, as a kind of writing prompt. The concept of the Rule was well known to Baroque composers, and their principles and virtuosic instrumental writing spoke to me here, and into the music of the piece.

Around the time he penned his heart-wrenching Heiligenstadt Testament, the famous unmailed letter in which he poured out his heart about his encroaching deafness, Beethoven told his pupil Carl Czerny: “I am not very well satisfied with the work I have done thus far.  From this day on I shall take a new path.”  That “new path” is readily apparent in the three piano sonatas published as Op. 31, which include, in addition to the sonata heard tonight, two other highly innovative pieces in G and E-flat, respectively.

The second of the three sonatas, in D minor, has become known as “The Tempest” because Beethoven supposedly told his secretary Anton Schindler to read Shakespeare’s eponymous play if he wanted to know what the sonata was all about.  It is not clear what we should make of this information, but one thing is certain: we shouldn’t go looking for any direct echoes of Prospero and Miranda.  Perhaps the connection is less with the play itself than with the image of the tempest as such–and commentators from the last 200 years have been unanimous in describing the sonata (and its first movement in particular) as “stormy.”

The opening is nothing short of revolutionary, with its abrupt tempo changes and alternations between mysterious arpeggios and a short melody of great urgency.  In the words of musicologist Scott Burnham, author of the acclaimed book Beethoven Hero (1995), “this is music on the verge.”  After the relentlessly agitated exposition ends, the mysterious arpeggios return, much expanded, introducing a development section where the “tempest” intensifies.  The storm is contrasted with an astonishing unaccompanied recitative, which sounds like a lament, disrupting the flow of the music before the recapitulation restores the original momentum.

The central Adagio–which begins with a broken chord just like the first movement–is an intensely lyrical statement, a moment of calm in the midst of the storm, though not without its own tensions and dramatic climaxes.  The closing Allegretto combines relentless energy with a dreamlike, Romantic sensibility.  One of the most prophetic Beethoven sonatas, the Tempest picks up where the earlier Pathétique sonata had left off, and is a direct precursor of the Appassionata, which came just a few years later.

© 2026 Peter Laki

In his mid-twenties, Brahms did not feel quite ready to write a string quartet.  In that genre, Beethoven’s legacy seemed particularly oppressive.  Although the performing forces are larger, a sextet actually presented a lesser challenge.  String sextets did not have such a daunting history (in fact, they hardly had any history at all), and besides, chamber ensembles of six or more players had previously been associated with lighter, serenade-type music.  Brahms, who had composed two orchestral serenades in the late 1850s, adapted their genial atmosphere to the chamber music medium in the present work. It was premiered in Hanover by Brahms’ friend, the great violinist Joseph Joachim, and five of his colleagues, on October 20, 1860.

Joachim, who was a composer in his own right, felt that the opening theme of the first movement needed to be stated twice, lest the subsequent modulations begin too soon.  Brahms heeded the advice and added ten measures at the beginning of the work.  The first cello thus received the honor of announcing the theme before it is taken over by the first violin.  The character of this tender and romantic movement is best defined by the instructions espressivo, tranquillo and dolce, found frequently in the score.

The second movement, in the form of theme and variations, contains some unmistakable echoes of Bach’s Chaconne from the D minor partita for unaccompanied violin (a piece Brahms later arranged for piano).  There are five variations, of which the first three grow gradually more impassioned.  In variations 4 and 5, the key changes from minor to major, and the music evolves from gentle lyricism to a moment of supreme magic.

The third movement is an extremely brief scherzo in the Beethovenian mold, with allusions to the Fifth and Seventh symphonies.  The main section, already quite fast, frames a trio that is even more animated.

The finale’s graceful theme is passed from the first cello to the first violin, as in the first movement.  The light serenade tone prevails throughout, except for a brief moment where the music becomes more agitated.  Each time the main theme returns, its instrumentation changes.  At the last recapitulation, for instance, the melody is divided between two groups of three instruments each, alternating in every measure.

© 2026 Peter Laki