In Bruckner's physical appearance at this time there was! no hint of senility. He was a little above the average in height, but an inclination to corpulency made him appear shorter. His physiognomy, huge-nosed and smooth-shaven as he was, was that of a Roman emperor, but from his blue eyes beamed only kindness and childish faith. He wore unusually wide white collars, in order to leave his neck perfectly free. His black, loose-hanging clothes were obviously intended to be, above all, comfortable. He had even left instructions for a roomy coffin. The only thing about his attire suggestive of the artist was the loosely arranged bow-tie he always wore. About the fit and shape of his shoes he was, according to his shoe-maker, more particular than the most exactingly elegant member of the fair sex. As he would hurry along the street swinging a soft black hat, which he hardly ever put on, a colored handkerchief could always be seen protruding from his coat-pocket.
In the summer of 1886 he arrived in Bayreuth just in time to attend the funeral of Liszt. As Bruckner sat at the organ improvising a "Funeral Oration" in his own language out of themes of Parsifal, it was as if he were saluting the passing of that golden age of nineteenth-century music, which had endowed the world with the titanic contribution known as the art of Wagner. Now he was leader of the glorious cause, its highest living creative exponent, but he stood alone, he and his symphonies, while the enemy still held the field in great numbers,
The Seventh Symphony continued making new conquests. Cologne, Graz, Chicago, New York, and Amsterdam paid tribute to its greatness. When it reached Hamburg the aged teacher of Brahms said it was the greatest symphony of modern times. Brahms, however, continued to shrug his shoulders, and remarked: "In the case of Bruckner one needn't use the word 'Symphony'; it's enough to talk of a kind of 'fake' which will be forgotten in a few years."
Then young Karl Muck, Bruckner pupil, came to Graz with the same symphony, and following upon this really Austrian triumph, Vienna was compelled at last to capitulate, much to the annoyance of the Hanslick coalition. Hans Richter conducted the hostile "King of Orchestras" on March 21, 1886. The Seventh Symphony, after hunting for the "blue bird" all over the world, had come home at last to bring happiness to the "prophet in his own country." Hanslick's review the following day was a sort of brief apologia pro vita sua. "It is certainly without precedent," complained he, "that a composer be called to the stage four or five times after each movement of a symphony. To tell the truth the music of Bruckner so rubs me the wrong way that I'm hardly in a position to give an impartial view of it. I consider it unnatural, blown Up, unwholesome, and ruinous." Kalbeck, his aide-de-camp, picked ion Richter for having shown personal homage to Bruckner and alleged that it was done purely for popular effect. Concerning the music itself he said: "It comes from the Nibelungen and goes to the devil!" Dompke, another member of Hanslick's staff snarled: "Bruckner writes like a drunkard." Richter, at the banquet of the Wagner-Verein held to celebrate the occasion, declared that many members of the Philharmonic orchestra had changed their minds about Bruckner and that there would be no difficulty about producing his works in Vienna from that time on. As a matter of fact, the next symphony, the Eighth, was introduced to the world by the Philharmonic. Heroic Richter now carried the banner into the British Isles, in spite of Brahms' reproving earning, "You surely are not going to perform Bruckner in England!"
The triumphant journey of the Seventh continued, Budapest, Dresden, and London next being conquered. To be sure, Berlin, in the hands of the Brahms marshals, Buelow and Joachim, only gave it a timid welcome. A prominent writer said of the occasion: "It was like offering a roast to a table of mules." Another said: "I considered Brahms a great symphonist until to-day, but how the little 'Doctor' seemed to shrink when he was programmed beside this giant, as was the case in this concert!"
It was still impossible for Bruckner to find publishers for his colossal work. Time after time his manuscripts were called for by different firms, but always returned to him with regretful apologies. Then Suddenly, New York through Anton Seidi threatened to publish the Romantic, whereupon Hermann Levi for the second time made a collection of the required sum in Munich and thus saved Europe from the imminent disgrace.
In the autumn of 1880 personal friends of Bruckner and Brahms, hoping to end the quarrel between the two masters, agreed to bring them together in a Viennese restaurant. Bruckner, quite amicable, had arrived early and had already had two or three portions of Nudel-soup before Brahms put in an appearance. "Stiff and cold they faced each other across the table," related one of those present. It was an uncomfortable situation and the well-meaning conspirators were highly disappointed. Finally Brahms broke the silence and called for the bill-of-fare. With a forced display of good-nature he cried out: "Now let's see what there is to eat!" He glanced along the list of courses, suddenly looked up, and ordered: "Waiter, bring me smoked ham and dumplings!" Instantly Bruckner joined in, crying, "That's it, Doctor! Smoker ham and dumplings. At least that's something on which we can agree!" The effect of this remark was instantaneous. Everybody shook with laughter. The ice was broken and the remainder of the evening proved to be friendly and jolly.
A real understanding between the two was, of course, impossible. It was a case of temperaments diametrically opposed, conceptions of art basically at variance, in short, an apt illustration of Kipling's phrase "And the twain shall never meet."
Bruckner explained the situation thus: "He is Brahms (hats off!); I am Bruckner; I like my works better. He who wants to be soothed by music will become attached to Brahms; but whoever wants to be carried away by music will find but little satisfaction in his work." Brahms himself had declared before joining the Hanslick camp: "Bruckner is the greatest symphonist of the age." Once after listening to a Bruckner symphony Brahms approached the composer, saying: "I hope you won't feel hurt about it, but I really can't make out what you are trying to get at with your compositions." "Never mind, Doctor," answered Bruckner, "that's perfectly all right. I feel just the same way about your things."
In 1890, warned by repeated attacks of laryngitis and general nervousness, he begged leave to spend a year free from conservatory duty. His request was granted, but with no pay. He now drew the long-dormant First Symphony from its dusty shelf and set to work polishing it. Several years before, Hans Richter, happening to be present when two of Bruckner's pupils played a four-hand arrangement of the work, in his enthusiasm snatched up the orchestral score and wanted to run off with it, when Bruckner called out anxiously, "But the ragamuffin has to be cleaned first!" From that time the First Symphony was known in Bruckner circles as the "Ragamuffin"– an apt nomenclature, indeed, when one remembers the impudence of the opening bars.