Head and Shoulders Above the Rest

By Madison Smith

It was very early in the morning in Moscow when
Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky attempted to hail a cab to take him
to the train station. The carriage did not stop. The driver must
not have recognized the greatest living composer in Russia.
It was very cold that first morning of February in 1887 and the
promise of Spring had not yet been kept. All the same, just
before the stone cold dawn, T. hurried briskly East toward
the train station and in anticipation of the first triumphant
ray. There were only cats on the street, making their way to
the warm bakery door to wait for the milk that would inevitably
be spilt by a rushed and freezing milkman. T. always said
he hated leaving the house before noon, it wasn’t decent
he said. He had initially thought he would leave last night, but
now he wouldn’t have changed a thing about last night - in this
moment he felt nothing could be finer than the fresh snow
and triumphant solitude of a still Moscow that was all his.
Of course, he almost never felt this way, and many morning’s
dawns he only begrudgingly witnessed. Recalling the times that
he wishes he could forget he could now hold then in contrast
to his current perfect satisfaction.

Once he had been a laughing stock, a traitor to the Nation
by simple virtue of who and what he was. Now he found himself
with a title of hereditary nobility – surely a great joke to all
who knew that he would never have children - granted to him
by the Tsar. Even if it was bitter amusement to some they could
not take that away from him. It was his honor and the warmth
of such thoughts made his face glow in the grey light. Recollecting
his performance, the previous night still thrilled him — he
had no idea that a conductor could enjoy more celebrity than
he had already experienced as a composer! It was marvelous, if
only because it had also been terrible. Indeed, it was best to be
alone the morning following such a disorienting night when
all seemed beyond unreal, the frigid morning air crystalized his
reality. After all of the emotions he’d experience during this
tour T. longed for nothing more than to return to his house
by the river in Maidanovo, in celebratory peace with his secret
intact.

What he had experienced the previous evening, was not
an entirely new sensation, but he had never endured it so completely,
and now it was difficult to allow his thoughts to even
take shape, to give it words was unthinkable to him. It was
a feeling that had always paralyzed him in the past and prevented
him from ever properly or successfully conducting
before last night. The acute sensation was, in fact, that as he
stood before the orchestra and raised his baton, that his skull,
and all that it contained, was sliding diagonally down and off
of his otherwise perfectly functioning body. Glass Syndrome,
as he’d heard it called in the West. Only the aristocracy
suffered from the malady. In a twisted sense, he thought, that
meant he had really made it. Imagined or real it nevertheless
nauseated him to recall that very corporal delusion. But, he had
done it. He had been able to maintain his head in an upright
position with the aid of his left hand holding his chin erect
and still while he conducted The Enchantress, flawlessly. The entire
ordeal had been just longer than three hours. Three hours
that had waxed and waned in their dysmorphic effect. Almost
no one had even noticed his drooping dome. T. did recall, with
sharp shame, a moment in the second act when the diva Emilia
Pavlovskaya was clearly giving him an alarmed side-long stare
that indicated to him that she, and perhaps her alone, could
see his decapitated head dragging along-side his body. But, it
seemed to make little difference to everyone else, so he pushed
through. I occurred to him now that perhaps a reputation had
proceeded him and that the orchestra had been prepared for
his odd behavior which would account for the non-reaction
to their conductor physically holding his head on during a
performance. They applauded none the less. The audience clamored
for him after the performance, his head feeling as though
it was dangling by a thread. He barely made it away and into
the night. For all his enjoyment and thrill for fame he had
never learned to cope with his fear of crowds jostling him in his
vulnerable state. Once he was in the quieter company of a few
close friends it was decided that it was too late for him to leave
the city and he easily acquiesced. After all he wanted to linger
in the penumbra of his spotlight.

He was approaching the train station now, the sun was still
low but it fell full on his face, which was now assuredly attached
to his neck and chest. As he passed the vendors setting up
outside he saw a paper just being put on display – “Tchaikovsky
Astounds with Performance…”. Once again he felt a lightening
in his body, but now it was his feet which hovered above the
ground.

A month later T. could be found puttering around his
barely thawed garden in the late morning. It had been an
exceptional time of emotional wellbeing and creative output.
Before his small household staff intruded on his days he relished
the happiness he felt in his solitude. The past week had been
especially rewarding. After days and nights of composing,
of emptying his head of the beautiful melancholy he was
known for, he sat with a completed work that still only existed
for him. Unseen and unperformed, his latest piece was sure
to cement his place as a national treasure. But for right now it’s
still his alone and he relished in that knowledge.

He inhaled the sharp March air, filling himself back up.
The outdoors was just beginning to become bearable again
in the countryside outside Moscow. T could sense the energy
of spring coming; of the bulbs and seedlings under the thin
patches of remaining snow. High hums and deep vibrations,
unique in space and time to his garden this moment.
And as his easy gaze wandered over the middle distance a row
of incandescent and prismatic icicles halted his attention.
Very easily drops fell onto the moss below. Just as slowly a
quiet dread crept over him. It grew as each drop lingered on
the tip. He watched with bated breath and unnatural fixation.
The tension was abruptly ruptured with an icy shatter as one
suddenly succumbed to time and gravity. The rest were sure to
follow.

Madison Smith was a graduating senior when this story was written. She studied physics and history at the University of Maryland and enjoyed exploring / playing with historical narratives around mental illness in an effort to de-stigmatize and encourage empathy.