The summer of 1803 saw him the central figure at the Bayreuth Festspiele. His arrival was enthusiastically greeted by a host of musicians and music-lovers. In the confusion of welcome the trunk containing the sketches of the Ninth Symphony disappeared, but after many anxious hours it was located at the police-station, to the composer's great relief. Daily he made his pilgrimage to the grave of the "Master of all Masters." The critic Marsop, once an enemy of his, says he saw Bruckner! approach Wagner's grave reverently, fold his hands and pray with such fervor that the tears literally streamed down his face. Perhaps, Bruckner already felt that this visit to Wahnfried might be his last.

In the consciousness of the more enlightened Viennese his name now occupied a place beside the great masters who had lived in the "city of music," and as he passed along the street, voices could be heard whispering with awe: "There goes Anton Bruckner!"

He lived in a small, simple apartment of two rooms and kitchen, tended by an old faithful servant, Kathi, who for twenty years had spent; a few hours each day caring for the bachelor's household. In the bluewalled room where he worked stood his old grand piano, a harmonium, a little table, and some chairs. The floor and most of the furniture were littered with music. On the walls hung a large photograph and an oil painting of himself. From this room a door led to his bedroom, the walls of which were covered with pictures of his "beloved Masters." On the floor stood a bust of himself which he was pleased to show his friends, who relate that he would place his hand upon its brow, smile wistfully, and say: "Good chap!" Against the wall stood an English brass bed presented to him by his pupils. This he called "My one luxury." At home he would go dressed even more comfortably than on the street, merely! donning a loose coat whenever a guest was announced. Kathi knew exactly at what hours guests were welcome. If the master was composing no one was permitted to disturb him. At other times he went in person to meet the caller at the door. Bruckner worked, as a rule, only in the morning, but sometimes he would get up during the night to write down an idea that had suddenly! come to him. Possessing no lamp, he did this night work by the light of two wax candles. When the faithful Kathi saw traces of these in the morning she scolded him severely, warning him to be more careful about his health. When she insisted that he compose only in the daytime, he would say contemptuously: "What do you know about such things? I have to compose whenever an idea comes to me."

Sometimes, other answers failing him, he tried naively to impress her with his importance, crying: "Do you know whom you are talking to? I am Bruckner!" "And I am Kathi," she retorted and that was the end of the argument. After his death she said of him: "He was rude, but good!"

On the eighteenth of December, 1892, occurred the most impressive performance of his career, when the Philharmonic played his Eighth Symphony. Realizing the unprecedented depth of this work, a profundity which only movements of the most colossal proportions could cope with, Bruckner had been much worried concerning the welcome it would receive from the public. The performance, however, was superb and aroused the greatest enthusiasm. Just before the Finale the exasperated Hanslick rose to take his leave and received an ovation such as only the consummate villain of the play is given upon a particularly effective exit.

Bruckner's condition at this time was already causing his doctors much concern and it was only owing to the extreme importance of the occasion that they permitted him to be present.

At the close of the symphony, which had been the sole number on the program, the applause was tremendous and threatened never to end. Bruckner, after countless bows to the audience, turned and bowed to the famous orchestra which had at last been won over to his side. It was a true triumph, the First unqualified victory he had ever gained in Vienna. The critics called it the "crown of nineteenth century music," "the masterpiece of the Bruckner style." Hugo Wolf wrote: "The work renders all criticism futile; the Adagio is absolutely incomparable." Even the "holdout," Kalbeck, at last admitted, "Bruckner is a master of instrumentation," and "the symphony is worthy of its sole position on the program."

Bruckner was most unhappy that increasing illness often made it impossible for him to hear his own works, the performances Of which were becoming ever more frequent. He had been put on a strict diet. "Even my favorite Pilsner beer is forbidden me," he complained to his former teacher Kitzier. His badly swollen feet rendered organ playing out of the question and he had to remain in bed most of the time. Nevertheless it was this same suffering Bruckner who wrote the rollicking Scherzo of the Ninth' Symphony, perhaps the most vital of all his lighter movements.

The end of 1893 saw such an improvement in his condition that he was even permitted a trip to Berlin. This change for the better was, alas, only temporary, for the following days brought such an enduring relapse that he could not attend the first performance of his Fifth Symphony in Graz, under that young eagle of the baton, Franz Schalk, April 8, 1894. A devoted pupil of Bruckner, Schalk had fervently embraced the enormously difficult undertaking of love involved in the study and production of this mighty work, with its irresistibly inspiring climax. Only the presence of the ailing master was lacking to render the occasion as happy as it was musically important.

During the summer Bruckner was sufficiently recovered to return to the rustic surroundings of his earlier years, but his seventieth birthday was celebrated quietly, by order of the Viennese doctor who had accompanied him. Telegrams of congratulation and best wishes streamed into the little town of Steyr from all corners of the earth. Articles about him and his work appeared in all the newspapers. The people of Linz bestowed on him the key of the city; he was elected honorary member of countless musical organizations. In short, not a single sign of esteem the earth might show its kings of tone was now withheld from the ailing genius. The glory he had richly earned twenty years before now came to him when the greatest joy he could reveal at the realization of his universal recognition was a wistful smile in which life-long spiritual pain lurked behind the ghost of a belated happiness.

Unexpectedly, what seemed a swift recovery, in the fall of 1894., found him once more ascending the platform at the university to resume his lectures on musical theory. Only a few such days of grace were granted his shattered body by relentless Fate, for two weeks later he stood for the last time before his beloved students. From then on his health declined steadily and even his mental condition suffered from erratic spells. He was compelled to abandon his Ninth Symphony at the close of the third. movement, an Adagio which, he told friends, was the most beautiful he had ever composed. From sketches found among his posthumous effects we know it had been his intention to add to this glorious work a purely instrumental finale, perhaps in the manner of the closing portion of his Tragic Symphony.

Yet, little though he realized it, when the last note of this Adagio dies out there is no expectation unfulfilled. It is as if he has confessed all, poured out his very soul in this music, so that the work he despaired of ever finishing, the work he died thinking incomplete, now strikes the listener as a perfect symphony-unit needing no prescribed finale.

On January 12, 1806, he heard his Te Deum, its performance in Vienna having been recommended by no other than Brahms himself, who at last seems to have changed his attitude towards the man he had opposed for years. This was the last time Bruckner ever heard one of his own works. The very last music he listened to in public was Wagner's Liebesmahl der Apostel. It was much like a musical farewell-greeting from the Master he had esteemed above all others in his lifetime. During the summer of that year Bayreuth was prepared for the worst, for a strong rumor was afoot that Bruckner was dying. Yet his gigantic vitality outlived the season. Not till October 11 did the dreaded moment come. It was a Sunday. In the morning he had occupied himself with the sketches for the Finale of the Ninth Symphony. There seemed nothing alarming about his condition. At three in the afternoon he suddenly complained of feeling cold and asked for a cup of tea. A friend who was with him helped him to bed, but no sooner did he appear comfortable, when he breathed once or twice heavily and all was over.