Source of book: I own this.
Willa Cather is one of my favorite authors, and I have read a number of her books over the years. Here is the list of blog posts:
Death Comes for the Archbishop
I decided to read The Professor’s House in connection with our big summer trip this year, when we revisited a number of destinations in Colorado that we had last seen in 2015. My younger two kids didn’t remember things all that well, so it was good to go back.
Unfortunately, we weren’t able to see much of Mesa Verde National Park, as we went around the Independence Day holiday, and tours sold out instantly before I could grab one. Instead, we did camp inside the park, and saw many of the overlooks one evening after the crowds had mostly gone home.
Oh, and we also had a great day exploring sites in Canyon of the Ancients and Hovenweep - also lesser known gems from the same great civilization of 800 years ago.
So what does The Professor’s House have to do with all of this? Well, the central section of the book is a highly fictionalized account of the discovery and initial attempts to protect Mesa Verde and its archeological treasures.
You can read about Cather’s choices in crafting the narrative, as well as a good account of the true facts of the case here. She definitely took some liberties, but that does not diminish either the book itself - which is fiction - or the slightly less romanticized real life story of the park. Also, I do highly recommend seeing Mesa Verde and the other historical sites in the area.
The Professor’s House is divided into three sections, and most of it is actually not about Mesa Verde, but about an aging professor of history at a Great Lakes area college.
Godfrey St. Peter is at a point of crisis - or multiple crises perhaps - in his life. Pretty much everything about his identity is crumbling, and he is struggling for purpose in life. He feels he has done all that he wanted to do, and now has no purpose in life.
His two daughters have married and moved out; he still sees them regularly, but the relationships have changed, as they do. The book is a bit ambiguous about the relationship Godfrey has with his wife, Lillian. Clearly, they have fallen out of love, if they were ever in it. Her inheritance enabled him to live comfortably for a small-town professor - indeed, it was the reason he could afford to take the job he wanted over the one that paid. But these days, Godfrey and Lillian can’t seem to connect. There is a passage at the end of the book that is achingly sad.
Lillian had had the best years of his life, nearly thirty, and joyful years they had been, nothing could ever change that. But they were gone.
One point of unhappiness is that Lillian has insisted on moving out of their longtime home - a rather inconvenient and quirky rental that Godfrey is irrationally attached to, and into a modern home they can own. Hence the name of the book.
The reason they are able to make the move is that Godfrey’s magnum opus, a gigantic multi-volume work on Spanish history in the New World, has unexpectedly exploded in popularity and sales. They have money now. And some status, which Lillian particularly loves.
But with his life’s work done, what is left to Godfrey?
And there is one more thing that haunts the family. A number of years ago, a young man named Tom Outland showed up, with a mysterious background in the Southwest, but also a brilliant mind. In fact, he is the best student that Godfrey has ever had.
Tom charms the family, eventually becoming engaged to the older daughter, and becoming a fast friend of Godfrey. In fact, it is hinted that Tom may have been one reason for the breakdown of the relationship between Godfrey and Lillian. Cather is never explicit, or even close. But there is more than a hint of homoeroticism between Godfrey and Tom - at the least, the emotional connection is far greater than what Godfrey feels for his wife. Make of that what you will.
Well, things don’t work out well. Tom goes abroad to fight in World War One, and is killed. He leaves all of his estate to Rosamond, including a patent for…something called the “Outland vacuum.” Cather wasn’t much of a scientist, but apparently this thing turned out to be a huge moneymaker once the man Rosamond eventually married after Tom’s death figured out how to monetize it.
So, Rosamond and her husband Louis become rich, younger sister Kitty marries a journalist with a modest income, and you have family resentments all over the place. You can imagine, I expect.
So, now you have Godfrey, his daughters up and married, his wife cold, his favorite student dead, his book written, and no idea what to do with his life. No wonder he spends his time in his study at the old house.
In this respect, this book is pretty dark. And particularly the ending. While it isn’t expressly tragic, it only barely avoids it, and the book ends without a resolution for Godfrey’s depression and existential angst.
I will confess that at my own time of life, I can kind of sympathize with Godfrey. Not that I am in his exact position, but as my kids grow up - I have three in college now - I can see the end of my hands-on parenting approaching. Those relationships are already changing - as they must, of course. My hope is that they shift to a mutually loving adult relationship, but I know from my own experience that a degree of separation is necessary and healthy. Even if I am going to empty-nest really hard.
Along with this comes the question of what I want the rest of my life to be like. Unfortunately, this has been complicated by the political uncertainty that faces our country, where everything from civil war to another great depression is on the table. I mean, I hope that I can continue to make music and read and write and travel with my wife, but there are no guarantees. (For that matter, a number of friends have lost spouses before they could enjoy that time of life - nothing is guaranteed, including life and health.)
Cather writes this feeling so very well, of course. So many of her books are filled with unresolvable ambivalence, uncertain futures, and unclear paths forward. One of the reasons I love her writing: she refuses easy solutions.
There are some excellent lines in the book, of course. The first one comes in a discussion between the St. Peters over the use of a downright dangerous stove in the old house’s study. (Back in the day when natural gas was both odorless, and riddled with carbon monoxide, making it deadly if a flame goes out. Sylvia Plath was able to kill herself using it, while nowadays natural gas is more likely to cause nausea due to the added odor long before it can harm.)
“That stove isn’t safe when you keep the window open. A gust of wind might blow it out at any moment, and if you were at work, you’d never notice until you were half poisoned by gas. You’ll get a fine headache one of these days.”
“I’ve got headaches that way before, and survived them,” he said stubbornly.
“How can you be so perverse? You know things are different now, and you ought to take more care of your health.”
“Why so? It’s not worth half so much as it was then.”
That last line cracks me up. And reminds me of a silly argument my wife ended up having with her grandmother years ago. Her grandfather was nearing the end of his long life, and wanted to enjoy a beer for his 90th birthday. My wife pointed out both that one wouldn’t really interfere with his meds, and also, he was 90 for goodness sake, and didn’t have to “be careful” at that point.
One of the subplots is that another professor, Crane, let Outland borrow his lab to do some of his experiments that led to his invention. Crane - or more accurately, Crane’s wife - thinks he should get a share of the income from the invention. Unfortunately, neither of them is willing to straight-up ask Louis to do so. And probably Louis would be generous, because he is a decent sort, if a bit of a salesman. Instead, they try to get Godfrey to do it, which he has no intention of doing - he doesn’t want to get caught in between like that.
Anyway, this leads to a bit of musing by Godfrey on university politics. It is fascinating to me how relevant this feels 100 years later.
His friendship with Crane had been a strange one. Out in the world they would almost certainly have kept clear of each other; but in the university they had fought together in a common cause. Both, with all their might, had resisted the new commercialism, the aim to “show results” that was undermining and vulgarizing education. The State Legislature and the board of regents seemed determined to make a trade school of the university. Candidates for the degree of Bachelor of Arts were allowed credits for commercial studies; courses in book-keeping, experimental farming, domestic science, dress-making, and what not. Every year the regents tried to diminish the number of credits required in science and the humanities.
It goes on from there, to the mention of “what the taxpayer wants.” I mean, literally, it sounds like the same stuff now that it was back then. As Wendell Berry noted, we would probably have better men in business if we required the humanities - including ethics.
Near the end of the first section (which is more than half the book), the family makes plans to visit Paris, but Godfrey declines, citing his work. Which isn’t really the reason.
He liked Paris, and he liked Louie. But one couldn’t do one’s own things in another person’s way; selfish or not, that was the truth. Besides, he would not be needed.
There is a lot in this passage. There are certainly signs of Godfrey’s ennui, and also his estrangement from Lillian (who prefers Louis’ company at this point), the feeling that returning to a place enjoyed as a younger man would be disappointing, and the feeling that he would just be a tag-along this time rather than the moving force behind the trip.
All legitimate, perhaps. But also a symptom of a man who no longer has the ability to change and grow, which is the root of the problem, in my opinion.
The middle section has some of Cather’s best descriptive writing. She wrote a lot about the Southwest, which was her happy place for most of her adult life. There is one bit, however, that I particularly noted.
In the cliff dwellings at Mesa Verde, there are typically seep springs at the back of the overhangs. Not a lot of water, but a reliable source. To make this work, the residents carefully channelled the seepage into cisterns. Even 800 years later, you can see the infrastructure. (And also the reservoirs on top of the mesa - it was quite the extensive network of villages and fields.)
Besides the tower, there seemed to be about thirty little separate dwellings. Behind the cluster of houses was a kind of back court-yard, running from end to end of the cavern; a long, low, twilit space that got gradually lower toward the back until the rim rock met the floor of the cavern, exactly like the sloping roof of an attic. There was perpetual twilight back there, cool, shadowy, very grateful after the blazing sun in the front courtyard. When we entered it we heard a soft trickling sound, and we came upon a spring that welled out of the rock into a stone basin and then ran off through a cobble-lined gutter and dripped down the cliffs. I’ve never anywhere tasted water like it; as cold as ice, and so pure.
That sure conjured up images from my visit nearly a decade ago. It clearly made an impression on Cather when she saw it as well.
I mentioned that the archaeology is very outdated, and perhaps the greatest example is the belief that the occupants of Mesa Verde disappeared - and perhaps they were exterminated. There are reasons this was believed, principally that the ruins were filled with everyday items, suggesting that the occupants expected to come back soon, but were prevented.
These days, we recognize that this is inaccurate, and a projection of Western practices on other peoples. Carrying all of those pots and tools wasn’t a good use of energy, particularly for people who regularly had to rotate sites based on climate cycles. Better to just leave things until you return, perhaps.
In any case, the builders of Mesa Verde didn’t disappear: they simply moved south and became the ancestors of the residents of Arizona and New Mexico today.
The fictional character of Father Duchene gives a rather extended monologue expounding those views to Tom, and reflected the science of the times. There is one bit that I wanted to mention.
“Like you, I feel a reverence for this place. Whenever humanity has made that hardest of all starts and lifted itself out of mere brutality, is a sacred spot. Your people were cut off here without the influence of example or emulation, with no incentive but some natural yearning for order and security. They built themselves into this mesa and humanized it.”
Mixed in with the inaccuracies - Mesa Verde in fact was one part of a vast trade network that brought items from as far as Alaska and Chile, not an isolated civilization - and the condescension - the idea that it arose from brutality, which is not supported by the evidence - are a pair of truths.
It is in fact inspiring the way humans make themselves a part of the landscape, and Mesa Verde is indeed a place that shows incredible artistry and skill. And, I share that feeling of reverence whenever exploring the former homes of the peoples who lived here in the past. These are sacred places.
The contrast between the breathless and optimistic middle section, and the bleakness of Godfrey’s despair in the framing story is stark. Tom Outland’s boundless excitement at discovery contrasts with Godfrey’s feeling that life is over for him. Youth versus age, but also naivety versus hard experience.
And I still very much wonder about the subtle subtext. Cather was a lesbian, and sometimes it helps to insert her in the place of male protagonists - My Antonia is a prime example. This book doesn’t really lend itself to that: it was written at the height of Cather’s popularity, and before she began to fall out of style. Although maybe she saw the future.
What is clear is that there is that subtle edge of frisson between Godfrey and Tom, and Godfrey’s feeling that he has lost his closest relationship. His editing and publishing of Tom’s diaries is his last tribute to his friend - and muse perhaps - and after that, he has nothing to look forward to. It is his final step of grieving, perhaps.
I wouldn’t rate this as Cather’s best book, but it is still a good read. Both the framing story and the Mesa Verde narrative are good by themselves, if a bit stitched together with each other. I still like My Antonia best of the Cather novels I have read, but this is worth reading as well.
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