Death Comes for the Archbishop was such a pleasant surprise. In this novel, which is as much a series of vignettes as a single narrative, Willa Cather delivers an unmatched portrayal of the 19th-century American Southwest. The rocky land formations and trickling desert streams leap off the page; the different cultures (American, European, Mexican, Indigenous) of the region are all given their due in ways that are both beautiful and nuanced. After reading this, I’ve never wanted to take a trip to the American Southwest more. That said, even at the time of publication in 1927, Cather was clearly grappling with a sense of a way of life that was not long for this world, and the book is steeped in nostalgia. Toward the end of the novel, the titular archbishop Jean Latour is visited by an old friend, a Navajo elder named Eusabio, who comments on just how much things have changed in the decades since the two first met. A journey that once took them two weeks on horseback can now be managed in a day by railcar. He remarks, “Men travel faster now, but I do not know if they go to better things.”
While the main protagonist of Cather’s novel is the titular archbishop, tasked with a lifetime of missionary work in the poorly catechized New Mexico frontier, the vignettes in this book serve up a multitude of diverse experiences and perspectives. In the close friendship between Bishop Latour and his fellow priest, Father Joseph Vaillant, Cather depicts two different personalities and approaches to missionary work. While Latour focuses on staffing his diocese with competent priests, building a cathedral, and rooting out corruption and poor theology, Father Joseph is more animated by being out among the people and immersing himself in the culture. This is an interesting difference that persists even today. In contrast to Bishop Latour and Father Vaillant, Padre Martinez and Father Lucero represent the cohort of corrupt and immoral priests who take advantage of their authority and the lack of oversight in the untamed West. The tales of tribal traditions and practices scattered throughout the text make for wonderful side adventures that give the reader a sense of Indigenous practices, myths, and lifestyles, while also maintaining a sense of mystery—and the perils that can occur when two cultures clash and cannot properly communicate with one another. The story of the Ácoma people tossing Friar Baltazar off a cliff and the legend of the snake in the cave were particularly impactful.
I can continue to describe the different character archetypes the bishop encounters throughout his life, but one in particular stood out. In Book Seven, Chapter II, titled December Night, Bishop Latour encounters an elderly Mexican woman who has been enslaved by a white Protestant family and denied her freedom to go to church or at all practice her Catholic faith. Bishop Latour brings her in from the cold and into his church on a winter night, literally offering her the coat off his back. This visual of the bishop offering spiritual comfort to someone suffering the hardship of life at the hands of man and nature alike seemed to me the best thesis statement for the bishop’s entire mission.
Reading this book, it is very clear that Willa Cather was well-read. She undoubtedly knew her history and her theology. But as I wrote in a recent review of another book, an author’s knowledge and research can only get them so far. What makes Death Comes for the Archbishop so good is that it was also clearly written with love. Love for the land. Love for the people. Love for a unique moment in a special place, where different cultures melted and fought until the frontier itself was subsumed by modern life.
The Once and Future Lit 