A little before this time, through the good graces of the previously mentioned Goellerich, the University of Vienna had announced! the creation of a "chair" of music and the inclusion of harmony land counterpoint in the regular curriculum. Despite the firm opposition of Hanslick, Bruckner, who had ten years before appealed to the faculty that some such step be taken in his behalf, was now appointed lecturer. From the opening address, April 30, 1876, which was attended by so great a number of students that the occasion might well be compared to the first of Schiller's lectures at Jena, the younger generation embraced the Bruckner cause enthusiastically. To the academic subjects taught by
Bruckner, with Goethe's words as motto: "Gray is every theory. Green alone life's golden tree," were added those glorious improvisations for which he was so noted and the inspiring message of which endeared him to the hearts of his "Gaudeamuses," as he lovingly called his students. The open enmity of Hanslick towards their beloved professor gradually assumed for them the proportions of a political issue and a life problem. In the years to come the Bruckner cause in Vienna was to attain such strength through the loyalty of these University students that the combined enmity of critics and musicians would have to bow before it in the dust. This was actually realized ten years later, when the Philharmonic was finally compelled, owing to the force of public opinion, to program the already world-famous Seventh Symphony (1886).
As the result of the frigid reception accorded the Wagner Symphony Bruckner spent the next two years (1878-80) in a radical revision of the instrumentation of the Second, Fourth, and Fifth symphonies, including the composition of a totally new movement, the now famous Hunting Scherzo, for the Fourth or Romantic. However, the changes he made in the scores are not of the nature of compromises between the artist and the world, for the themes of the symphonies remained unaltered, only unnecessary rhythmic and technical complications being abandoned.
To this interval also belongs the composition of the (Quintet for strings, Bruckner's sole contribution to chamber-music, but a work so deep and mighty that those who have heard it proclaim that in the whole range of chamber music only the last Beethoven string-quartets attain such spiritual heights. The Quintet was composed by the symphonist Bruckner and has the sweep and grandeur of his best symphonic creations.
The interval of rest from major composition saw him frequently attending the many colorful formal dances of Vienna. It seems psychologically consistent that one whose mind was always engaged in tragic inner conflicts should seek recreation in the halls of festivity and laughter. Bruckner had always been fond of dancing.
A severe attack of "nerves," doubtless due to overwork, drove him to seek relief in Switzerland during the summer of 1880. In August of that vacation period he visited the Passion Play at Oberammergau and fell head over heels in love with one of the "daughters of Jerusalem," the seventeen-year-old Marie Barti. He waited for her at the stage-door, obtained an introduction, and escorted her home. After spending that evening and most of the next day in the Barti family circle the arrived at a temporary understanding which left the love affair on a correspondential basis. There followed a lively exchange of letters between him and Marie, lasting a year, but the time came when the girl no longer answered him. Thus the now fifty-six-year-old lover found himself again refused entrance into the halls of matrimony. One is here involuntarily reminded of the love of the thirty-seven-year-old Beethoven for the fourteen-year-old Therese Malfatti, though nowadays we have ceased to gasp at such things. The solitary silent remnant of this romance of Bruckner's is a photograph of his bearing the inscription: "To my clearest friend, Marie Barti."
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.