A musicological brain-twister: which early nineteenth-century composer composed two symphonies labeled "No. 13," both of which survive today, and yet rightly has not one symphony "No. 13" to his credit? Felix Mendelssohn is the correct answer, and the circumstances that lead to such an apparent paradox of course need some explanation. Between about 12 and about 14 years of age (1821 - 1823), Mendelssohn authored a series of sinfonias for string orchestra. Twelve were completed and a 13th begun. That 13th and final string symphony effort is today known as Mendelssohn's Sinfonia No. 13; but Mendelssohn himself did not call it that. He reserved the label "No. 13" for another work—his first full-scale symphony for full orchestra, begun in 1824 just a few months after he closed the book on string symphonies for good. Mendelssohn, however, eventually decided that his "No. 13" was better thought of as the first in a new line of works, and so the "No. 13" was dropped and it became the Symphony No. 1 in C minor, Op. 11. Thus, Mendelssohn composed two pieces that at one time or another have been called the "Symphony No. 13," and yet neither ultimately won that stamp with any permanence, at least not from the composer's own point of view.

The Sinfonia for string orchestra No. 13 in C minor, then, is today called by that name only to ensure that it remains where it belongs—at the tail end of the series of string symphonies. It is also sometimes called, more simply, the Sinfoniesatz, or Symphonic Movement in C minor. Mendelssohn never officially disowned the piece (meaning that he never destroyed it), but it was certainly never published during his lifetime, and, buried as it was in the family home, he probably never imagined that the issue of its naming would ever arise.

Its single movement is of the vintage eighteenth-century opening movement type, with a slow introduction and a quick, lean main body. The gestures of the opening Grave have something almost of Handel to them—or if not of Handel necessarily, certainly something that reaches back past Mozart and Haydn into the late Baroque. The youthful Mendelssohn was something of a one-man melting-pot of a composer, and it is always fascinating to watch the various elements—Baroque, Classical, and genuine, unique Mendelssohn-ness—twirl and dive around one another. The Allegro molto that starts up after about two minutes is an urgent fugal exercise that pushes steadily towards a final climactic passage in burning tutti octaves. The final cadence is as stern a C minor utterance as one will find, despite its composer's age and reputation for musical lightness.

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