The Archbishop

Willa Cather wrote Death Comes for the Archbishop almost 100 years ago. It was published in 1927 and it is the fictionalized story of the Catholic bishop of Santa Fe who came to the newly acquired American territory in 1851 to replace the church structure of the vanquished Mexicans.

It is considered one of the classics of 20th century literature.

Its reputation for nearly a century is based on the luminous sense of place and landscape, and the depth of themes of grace and human connection. It was published when works of social criticism by male authors like Hemingway and Fitzgerald dominated, and this novel was very different -- a meditative, beautifully written series of timeless anecdotes.

She names the priest Latour in her book, but it is about Jean Baptiste Lamy, the real archbishop who left an indelible mark on the history of northern New Mexico. 

Along with Kit Carson, Father Lamy is a vivid part of the American history of this territory in the 1800s. The town of Lamy just south of here is named for him (but the town is pronounced LAYme, while the archbishop is LaMAY. Just so you know) 

Father Lamy's  statue graces the front of Santa Fe's Cathedral Basilica of Saint Francis of Assisi in the center of town (you know of course that the actual name of this city is La Villa Real de la Santa Fe de Francisco del Asis but everyone shortens it to Santa Fe). 

Here's my confession: I never read this classic. Not interested. Didn't read it in school, didn't consider it when we moved here. Dusty history and outdated Catholic customs held no interest for me. 

Well, what mistake I made. 

It is a beautiful book. I'm reading it finally, and it surprises me. The descriptions of Santa Fe and Acoma and Mora and Glorieta and Taos and the pueblos and beautiful harsh landscapes in between are stunning. Cather's sense of place is one of the real achievements of her writing. She nails the look and feel and atmosphere of the places I've seen and visited in New Mexico, but as it was in more primitive times.

There is no real plot, no recounting of biographical life events, just a series of fictionalized scenes of him bewildered by the responsibility of ministering to "an area the size of all of Europe, excepting Russia", but finding connections at every human level with the native people, with his assistant, with scoundrels and with priests he has to manage in isolated villages who went rogue long ago. 

His escapades are gently funny, his observations hit deep. His humanity and frailty come through without being at all saccharine.

Yes, there are some 1927 anachronisms -- Cather refers to Indians and redmen, and glorifies their "pure" lives a bit even as she gives them distinct identities. She eulogizes Kit Carson, who was actually quite, um . . . . complicated, historically.  We look at things with a different eye than a century ago.

Yet her prose never feels dated or stilted after all these years.

So I was wrong -- this is not the stuffy history of New Mexico and Catholic culture I thought it was. It's a warm, tender and faithfully descriptive hymn of northern New Mexico as it was many years ago.

And in the end, death did come for the good padre after a difficult life well lived and beautifully described.