The Fourth, already in the making at this time and bearing the title Romantic, was finished November 22, 1874. Although the description Romantic is no less fitting than that of Pastorate in the case of Beethoven's Sixth, there seems little doubt that the detailed "program" or symphonic plot communicated to his circle of friends by Bruckner was a post-analysis influenced by no other than Wagner, who had even published a rather fantastic pictorial description of Beethoven's Ninth. It is at any rate silly to dilly-dally over the fitness of its details, for the Romantic has so clear and effective a tale to tell that it has become the favorite vehicle for the introduction of Bruckner to a new audience. That the composer did not regard the "program" seriously is evident from his remark concerning the Finale: "And in the last movement," said he, "I've forgotten completely what picture I had in mind." Yet the work possesses an unmistakable unity hitherto without precedent in absolute music, for all four parts spring from the main theme in the first movement. So logical and masterly is the development of this theme in the course of the work that the climax is not reached until the closing portion of the Finale, making the Romantic symphony from the point of view of perfection of form perhaps the last word that has yet been spoken by man.
At this time, thanks to the zeal of his enemies his material condition had become almost hopeless. To quote from one of his letters, January ig, 1875: "I have only my place at the Conservatory, on the income of which it is impossible to exist. I have been compelled to borrow money over and over again or accept the alternative of starvation. No one offers to help me. The Minister of Education makes promises, but does nothing. If it weren't for the few foreigners who are studying with me, I should have to turn beggar. Had I even dreamed that such terrible things would happen to me no earthly power could have induced me to come to Vienna. Oh, how happy I'd be to return to my old position in Linz!"
The Viennese musical "powers that be" had conspired to make life unbearable for the avowed Wagnerite. One of the highest officials at the conservatory, in answer to an appeal by Bruckner, gave him the following generous advice: "It's high time you threw your symphonies into the trash-basket. It would be much wiser for you to earn money by making piano arrangements of the compositions of others." The same man, with equally kind intent, went so far as to say, "Bruckner can't play the organ at all."
The warlike Wagner's arrival in Vienna in the spring of 1875 drew more hostile attention to the timid symphonist. Of course, it did him more harm than good. The music-dramatist's reiterated praise of Bruckner's work was like a signal for the Viennese authorities to redouble the cruelty of their method of torture. Dessoff, conductor of the Philharmonic, promised to perform the Wagner Symphony, invited Bruckner to several rehearsals, and suddenly (after two months of preparation) declared he could not find room for it on a program. Later the orchestra took hold of it again, but rejected it finally (only a single musician opposing the move) as "absolutely unplayable."
Just as the persecuted Wagner set to work on his Meistersinger, pouring his sufferings out through the lips of Hans Sachs, Bruckner plunged into the tragic depths of his Fifth. Only in the construction of his colossal symphonies was he able to play the hero against fate. Over two years in the process of composition the Tragic symphony was compelled to wait eighteen years for its first hearing. That was not to be in Vienna, nor was Bruckner ever to hear the work at all.
In 1876 Wagner invited him to the inaugural Ring performances at Bayreuth and the two giant musicians once more discussed the Wagner Symphony. Perhaps as a direct result of this conference Bruckner now set about simplifying the condemned score and again appealed to the Philharmonic for a hearing. The prompt refusal then given his request must have convinced even him that a relentless hostility due to Wagner's praise made his cause impossible so far as that organization was concerned. Into this spiritual state of almost total eclipse there suddenly broke a ray of light. Herbeck, old friend of sunnier days, conductor of the fine, though less-famed, orchestra of the Society of the Friends of Music, became so disgusted with the unjust persecution that he determined to brave the wrath of critics and musicians by espousing tile Bruckner cause. Hardly had he announced the first step of his campaign, a production of the tabu Wagner Symphony, when he died. had not, at this juncture, an influential government representative named Goellerich (father of the noted Bruckner biographer) stepped into the breach, the Third Symphony would have been taken off the Herbeck program and the unhappy composer, poisoned with a cup of misery worthy of a Job, would probably have gone mad.
The performance itself which took place December 16, 1877 was one of the saddest in the history of music. Since no conductor dared to wield the baton upon the occasion, Bruckner himself was compelled to direct the orchestra. Early in the course of the symphony. Director Hellmsberger, spokesman of the conservatory, burst out laughing. Promptly another "director" followed suit. Upon this the apish students joined in. Then, of course, the public began to giggle. Soon some people rose and left the hall, indignant that the cause of music had been offered so great an insult as the performance of a Bruckner work in Vienna, the sacred musical metropolis. When the symphony came to an end there were hardly ten people left in the parquet. The few faithful occupants of the "standing room," a handful of Bruckner-pupils, among them Gustav Mahler, rushed down to the heartbroken master, from whom even the musicians of the orchestra had fled, and attempted in vain to cheer him with consoling words. At this moment an angel approached, in the guise of the music publisher Rattig, described the symphony as wonderful, and declared himself ready to risk the expense of publishing it. Under such a black sky was the Wagner Symphony given to the world.
To return to the Viennese critics for whose Wagner-gobbling appetite it had been a gala evening, the director Hanslick (intending it, of course, only as a joke) for once told the absolute truth, namely, that he "could not understand the gigantic symphony." He said there had come to him, while listening, "a vision in which Beethoven's Ninth had Ventured to accost the Valkyr maidens, only to be crushed under their horses' feet." As a sarcastic climax he added that he "did not wish by his words to hurt the feelings of the composer, whom he really held in great esteem."