In these gloomy days when, following the deplorable fiasco of the Wagner Symphony, no one in Vienna dared or cared to lift a hand in favor of the Romantic and Tragic symphonies, now long finished and still unperformed, a malady affecting his feet compelled Bruckner to take to his bed. There, in spite of depressing circumstances, he summoned up the spiritual strength to work on his Sixth Symphony. As if his misfortunes had merely been trials sent from Above to prove his faith, while Bruckner was still busy with the last movement of the new work, Hans Richter, the Wagner disciple, visited him and was so struck with the beauties of the dormant Romantic Symphony that he at once programmed it and invited the composer to a rehearsal. Richter's own words describing the occasion reveal Bruckner's naive character: "When the symphony was over," he related, "Bruckner came to me, his lace beaming with enthusiasm and joy. I felt him press a coin into my hand. 'Take this,' he said, 'and drink a glass of beer to my health.'" Richter, of course, accepted the coin, a Maria Theresa thaler, and wore it on his watch-chain ever after. The premiere of the Fourth took place on February 20, 1881 and proved a real triumph for Bruckner, who was compelled to take many bows after each movement. On the same program, however, the symphonic poem, the "Singer's curse" by Buelow, met with utter failure. Buelow, now a deserter from the Wagner camp, and turned to a staunch Brahmsian could not contain his jealousy land asked sarcastically, referring to the successful symphony: "Is that German music?" From Buelow, at any rate, the most devoted of Wagnerians could expect no praise. In time the insults Bruckner had to endure from that source grew vile beyond description. Even seven years Idler, with musical Germany at the composer's feet, Buelow still stood by the sinking ship, saying: "Bruckner's symphonies are the anti-musical ravings of a half-wit." At last in 1891, the patient composer experienced the gratification of hearing that Buelow had finally relented and was promoting Bruckner's Te Deum as a splendid work well worthy of pubic performance.

In July, 1882, he made a flying trip to Bayreuth to hear the opening performance of Parsifal. To him these few days were a beautiful idyll. He would stroll along the road with a black frock-coat on his arm, ready to don it hastily should Wagner come along by chance. It made no difference to him that people said this was an unnecessary act of homage. Sometimes he would stop at "Wahnfried" and gaze at its windows long and reverently. Mornings he would visit Wagner. The Master would come out to greet him, offering him the hand of the little Eva, while he said laughingly: "Mr. Bruckner, your bride!" Then Wagner would deplore the disappointing state of contemporary music, exclaiming: "I know of only one who may be compared to Beethoven – and he is Bruckner!" One evening, grasping the Austrian's hand, the aged Master cried: "Rest assured, I myself shall produce the symphony (meaning the Wagner) and all your works." "Oh, Master!" was all Bruckner could answer. Then the question: "Have you already heard Parsifal! How did you like it?" Bruckner sank upon his knees, pressing Wagner's hand to his lips, and murmuring: "Oh, Master, I worship you!" Wagner was deeply moved. When they bade each Other good night that evening, it was the last greeting they ever exchanged on earth, for the call of Valhalla for the "Master of all Masters," as Bruckner called him, was soon to sound. This is the premonition that took hold of the younger composer, then already deep in the creation of his Seventh Symphony. No more majestic tribute to the greatness of one mortal has ever been paid by another than in that glorious, soaring Adagio of Premonition. It is an appeal direct to the soul of the mighty music-dramatist, spoken in its own dialect, consummately mastered by a kindred soul.

The death of Wagner was a stupendous blow to the whole musical world and especially so to Bruckner. The latter, now approaching his sixtieth birthday, was still humble Prof. Anton Bruckner to the world about him. The field of musical fame, suddenly deprived of its solitary gigantic tenant, seemed to yawn for a new Titan. The psychological moment was at hand.

On the twenty-ninth of December, 1884, Hugo Wolf wrote: "Bruckner? Bruckner? Who is he? Where does he live? What does he do? Such questions are asked by people who regularly attend the concerts in Vienna." The Viennese were destined to the shame of soon basing taught by Germany the greatness they had been ignoring in their midst for a score of years.

When on December go, 1884, young Arthur Nikisch, Bruckner pupil, gave the Seventh Symphony its first hearing in no less modest a hall than the celebrated Gewandhaus at Leipzig, it was as if a divine Voice had burst forth from total darkness crying, "Let there be light!" As the last note ceased there was enacted a scene of unparalleled enthusiasm, the applause lasting fully fifteen minutes. Bruckner appeared on the stage dressed in his simple manner and bowed repeatedly in answer to the unexpected ovation. One of the critics present spoke of! him as follows: "One could see from the trembling of his lips and the sparkling moisture in his eyes how difficult it was for the old gentleman to suppress his deep emotion. His homely but honest countenance beamed with a warm inner happiness such as can appear only on the face of one who is too goodhearted to succumb to bitterness even under the pressure of most disheartening circumstances. Having heard his work and now seeing him in person we asked ourselves in amazement 'How is it possible that you could remain so long unknown to us?'" On New Year's Day, 1885, the whole world knew that a great symphonic composer whom snobbish Vienna had for years held bound and gagged was at last free to deliver his message to all mankind.

The performance of the Seventh Symphony in Munich under Hermann Levi proved an even greater triumph. The conductor called I it the "wonder work," avowing its interpretation was the crowning point of his artistic career. Perhaps Levi, famous Wagnerian chieftan as he was, intended to annihilate Brahms with a word when he also added, "It is the most significant symphonic work since 1827'"

Into the performance at Karlsruhe (the work was now making its meteoric way through all Germany), Felix Mottl, gifted Bruckner pupil, threw so much spiritual fire that even the white-haired Liszt, sitting among the distinguished audience, became from that moment a staunch Brucknerite. This conversion was all the more remarkable since the great pianist had long remained cold to Bruckner's music, although lie had been for two score years one of the chief marshals of the Wagrier camp. Liszt as a Wagnerian had secretly nursed the notion that the Liszt Symphonic Poems could never be properly understood by the people until they had learned to appreciate his son-in-law's music dramas.

Despite the recognition of the whole of Germany, Vienna and the Philharmonic continued to maintain a dogged aloofness. Still fearful, Bruckner anticipated any possible desire on the part of the famous orchestra to play his work by entering a formal protest against such a move, on the ground that "the hostility of the Viennese critics could only prove dangerous to my still young triumphs in Germany."

For diplomatic reasons, no doubt, the Quintet was now given, for the first time in its entirety, by the Hellmesberger aggregation. One of the most prominent reviewers wrote about it as follows: "We cannot compare it with any other Quintet in this generation. It stands absolutely alone in its field." Even Kalbeck, Brahms' biographer and one of Bruckner's bitterest enemies, said: "Its Adagio radiates light in a thousand delicate shades – the reflection of a vision of the seventh heaven."