Back in Vienna he doffed the hated mask of virtuoso and determined at his own cost to give the shelved F-minor Mass the hearing he felt sure it deserved. The performance took place in June, 1872. He had hired the world-famous Philharmonic orchestra for the occasion at a cost of three hundred gulden (eight months' wages to the Professor of Counterpoint) but the favorable report of the famous Hanslick about the work (though he declared it reminded him in spots of Wagner and Beethoven) was alone worth the price. Could Hanslick, Wagner's most powerful and bitter opponent, only have dreamed that the simple Bruckner was destined to receive at the hands of the great music-dramatist the heavy legacy of critical abuse he had gathered through two score years of stormy travel from Dresden to Bayreuth! Bruckner, only two years before this (1869), humbly as any music student, had sat with rapt attention at the feet of Hanslick, then lecturer on "Musical History" at the Viennese conservatory.
Meanwhile, during his London experience, he had launched upon a new symphony, determined to make it from the viewpoint of technical playability totally acceptable to the easy-going world of musicians and critics among whom fate had cast his lot. Conviction would not let him abandon the titanic skeletal structure of his First, the symphonic "wagon" to which he had "hitched his star." After long pondering he hit upon the unusual idea of punctuating the longer movements of the work with general pauses in the whole orchestra. This striking device at once caught the knowing ears of the musicians during the rehearsals for the first performance and resulted in the fabrication of the sarcastic nickname, "Rest Symphony," by which the work was thereafter known in Vienna. The description "Upper-Austrian," later applied by the noted Bruckner biographer Goellerich, is far more appropriate, for the opening and closing movements, and particularly the scherzo, are thoroughly saturated with the atmosphere and song of Bruckner's rustic "home country" surroundings. Upon being once more refused an official hearing for his new work on the ground of "unplayability," Bruckner again dipped deep into his yawning pockets and invited Vienna to hear his Second Symphony to the tune of four hundred and five gulden literally borrowed on a "pound of flesh." Speidel, a prominent critic, had the honesty to say in his report of the occasion: "It is no common mortal who speaks to us in this music. Here is a composer whose very shoe-laces his numerous enemies are not fit to tie." Hanslick, still no outspoken Bruckner opponent, expressed discomfort at the titanic dimensions' of the work, and lauded the "masterly manner" in which the orchestra played the "unplayable" score. (October 26, 1873.)
Although Brahms, whose First Symphony was still uncompleted, had nevertheless been firmly seated on the world's symphonic throne (for had he not been crowned by all critics as Beethoven's heir?) court-conductor Herbeck could not refrain from making the following remark to Bruckner after hearing this work: "I assure you if Brahms were capable of writing such a symphony the concert-hall would rock with applause."
Bruckner did not enter upon these huge personal expenses because of a thirst for public applause. That the joys of symphonic creation were sufficient spiritual exaltation for him, is clear from the zeal with which he began work upon his Third at the very moment his Second was unconditionally rejected by the Vienna Philharmonic. In the production of this new score he gave up all thought of mollifying friend and foe, who alike had complained about the length and difficulty of his previous orchestral efforts. The heroic defiance that stalks proudly through every movement of this work, making it sound much like a huge declaration of independence, has caused many to label it "another Eroica," implying a definite community between Beethoven and Bruckner.
That it was Bruckner's original intention to make this Third a "Wagner" symphony is clear from the actual note-for-note quotations from the already widely discussed Ring. He had apparently, by now, summoned up the courage to go to Wagner and ask him for his artistic approval. Fortunately his arrival at Bayreuth, armed with his last two symphonies, caught the Master of Wahnfried in most friendly humor. Bruckner's own description of his emotions as Wagner examined the scores is eloquent: "I was just like a schoolboy watching his teacher correct his note-book. Every word of comment seemed like a red mark on the page. At last I managed to stammer forth the hope that he would accept the dedication of one of the symphonies, for that was the only and also the highest recognition I wanted from the world." Wagner's answer, one of the few happy moments in Bruckner's tragic life, is surely recorded by the angels. "Dear friend, the dedication would be truly appropriate; this work of yours gives me the greatest pleasure."
After that, Bruckner went on, "We discussed musical conditions in Vienna, drank beer, and then he led me into the garden and showed me his grave!" They apparently spent a most delightful afternoon together. On the authority of the famous sculptor Kietz, who was present part of the time, we have it that a most amusing sequel developed on the two following days. Bruckner had had not only some, but in fact so much beer, the hospitable Wagner continually filling his mug and urging him to empty it (for a whole barrel had been ordered for the occasion), that the next morning found the Austrian quite muddled and at a loss which of the two symphonies the master had preferred. Ashamed to return to Wagner, he sought out the sculptor and appealed to him fof help in this dilemma, but the latter, highly amused, pretended not to have paid attention to the discussion, saying he had heard some talk about D-minor and a trumpet. Now in the sculptor's own words, "Bruckner suddenly threw his arms about me, kissed me, and cried, 'Thank you, dear Mr. Councilor (I don't know to this day how I came by the title) thank you! I know it's the one in D-minor the Master has accepted! Oh, how happy I am that I know which it is!'" Next day, however, he was once more doubtful, for he sent the following message to Wagner on a slip of blue paper (now a treasured museum possession): "Symphony in D-minor in which the trumpet introduces the theme. A. Bruckner." The same leaf came back to him promptly with the following addition: "Yes, yes! Hearty greetings! Wagner." Thus came Bruckner's Third to bear the name Wagner Symphony. Whenever Wagner heard Bruckner's name mentioned thereafter, he would exclaim, "Ah! Yes, the trumpet."
The report of this incident with its clear implication of Wagner's regard for Bruckner's genius proved the death-knell for whatever chance the symphonist may still have had for Viennese recognition during the Hanslick regime. Up to that moment his work had been neglected mainly because the musicians of the city had little ear for such "modern" harmony and dramatic orchestration, but the leaps and bounds Wagner's music-dramas and Liszt's Symphonic Poems were making in the world of art had brought about a complete revolution in musical taste. The new era was one of bitter personal hatreds between musicians and critics of two opposing factions. No political enemies have ever used more poisonous epithets than the Wagnerites against the Anti-Wagner-ites and vice-versa. A lion for punishment, both taking and giving, Wagner could easily weather the storm of unspeakable abuse, but away from his scores and classes Bruckner was a mere child so simple and shy that the merciless critical boycott of his works, which now followed, all but crushed his spirit. It was inconceivable to him that human beings could be as cruel as Hanslick and his snarling myrmidons were to him, merely because he had gained Wagner's friendship and recognition. His only solace was that he had become reconciled to composing work after work without the encouraging incentive of public hearings,