The Angel on the Roof: The Stories of Russell Banks by Russell Banks Page A

her. You are Edgar Poe the poet, author of “The Raven.” In a few moments, you will recite that beloved, that “magnificent and profound” poem to the literary citizens of Richmond, Virginia. Afterwards, in the Reverend Doctor Woolsey’s parlor, you will describe how you actually composed the poem, the rational procedures by which you constructed it, and they will be amazed. You, too, will be amazed at this new account of your ingenuity and self-sufficiency, your mastery of the intricacies and logic of language and emotion. And your mother would be amazed, had she lived to see it, hear it, watch you mystify them by means of demystification, enchant them by means of disenchantment, bewilder them with your clarity. They will feel privileged and released, for you will have demonstrated how any one of them could have written your beloved poem himself, had he merely been willing to apply himself to the task. But you, of course, have been the only one willing to apply himself to the task, and that is the reason the poem is yours, the reason you are its author, Edgar Poe the poet. Anyone could be Edgar Poe the poet, anyone, were he merely willing to apply himself to the task. You believe that, and when you politely excuse yourself and depart from the company of these literary ladies and gentlemen of Richmond, Virginia, they will believe it, too. It will give them a certain relief. How wonderful, they will each separately think, to know that one could be Edgar Poe the poet if one merely applied oneself to the task. And how wonderful, they will each separately think, to be free not to apply oneself to the task! They will each accept one more glass of sherry, and, in your absence, will admire your elegant yet forceful presence upon the stage, your charm and lucidity in private conversation, your erudition, your “profound and tender” eyes, your “musical” voice, all quite as if each person in the room were separately admiring his own presence upon the stage, his own charm, lucidity, erudition, eyes, voice. They will each separately admire your irresistibly beautiful mind. Your fame. Your position among men. Your role with women. Your exotic past. Your dead mother.
    You have been seated on a straight-backed chair in the center of the stage. A few feet in front of you, the Reverend Doctor Woolsey reads at the lectern from his prepared introductory speech. You watch his broad back, his speckled hands, his rising fluff of white hair. The thick tube of fat at the base of his skull contracts and hardens, and the Reverend Doctor lifts his gaze to the heavens so as more adequately to praise the poet, Edgar Poe, author of “The Raven.” You. Who cannot remember your mother. In your dreams she appears with her back to you, her arms outstretched before her. She ignores your call of, Mother! Mother! It is I, Edgar Poe the poet! But she does not flee or otherwise remove herself from you. She stands there in a white dress, as if at a lectern, with her arms outstretched, her gaze lifted heavenward, as if more adequately to praise her son, or as if to pray for permission for him to join her. For, without permission, you cannot join her, you may not move your feet, you may not take a single step toward her. It is as if you are bad, a bad boy, bad little boy. That is how she appears in your dreams of her and how you also appear there. A moribund tableau vivant, a frieze cut in a wall of darkness. Not a conscious memory, though. When awake, you try to remember your mother, as you do now, and you remember nothing, and since no mind can picture nothing, you remember Mr. Allan and the tobacco warehouses, the canal alongside the James River, your cousin Virginia and her mother. You recall your room at the college in Charlottesville, the parade ground at West Point, and then your half-empty bottle of Madeira on the spindly table offstage right. You remember your white handkerchief, slightly spotted with the wine wiped from your chin, now tucked