Review of The Promise by Ann Weisgarber

Some books add up to far more than the sum of their words; they reveal depths of sensibility and meaning that elude us most of the time. Such is Ann Weisgarber’s The Promise. There is a dramatic, cataclysmic sequence of events in this book, gripping and spell-binding (Galveston, Texas is famous for its hurricane), but the profound power here is in quieter sources. It lies in the two distinctive voices of the narrators and in the delicate brush strokes of prose that put us into the nuanced and complex inner worlds of these two women. Neither the reader’s initial assumptions about these women nor the self-views of the women themselves turn out to be the full truth. Both the reader and the characters grow into a humane understanding that transcends what we mortals are usually aware of. If you want to be lifted up by the power of what humans can do in the quietest of ways when pushed and when love exists in its genuine, variable forms, this is the book.

Weisgarber captures two utterly different women in 1900. One, Catherine, is educated, a classical musician, upper class and a Yankee. The other, Nan, is illiterate, the daughter of a fisherman, and Galveston born.
Here is Catherine’s voice as she heads to her new home under remarkably stressful circumstances: “Waves lapped and receded, and the sun was a hard light. Coated in a fine layer of salt, my skin prickled. It was impossible to imagine how I would manage on this remote part of the island. Yesterday’s bathhouses and crowds of bathers could have been figments of my overwrought imagination.”
Weisgarber’s subtle use of the physical response of characters is masterful throughout this book as she shows in this passage with the prickling skin. Not only do we feel Catherine’s discomfort through such vivid, intimate details as that fine layer of salt, but we know Catherine through her use of phrases like “figments of my overwrought imagination.” She shies away from simple, single-syllabic words. Her confusion about her new world is framed in a stiff formality that acts as a barrier between her and the new people she’s meeting. Catherine does not lose her northern, educated language, but the world does invade and peel away her corsets, both metaphorical and real.

Nan’s rhythms sound completely different. Hostility between these two women feels preordained. Here’s Nan’s voice on a similar piece of road: “After that, it was a half-mile of ridge road, us going east, a speck of light up ahead. That came from Oscar’s barn. He was at work, like always, but the house was as dark as a tomb. The boys dropped me off at the veranda steps, and when I let myself into the house, Mrs. Williams’ bedroom door was closed. It was coming up on four-thirty, and there wasn’t even a sliver of light to be seen from around the edges of her door. The very notion of it was a disturbance. Dairy farm people didn’t laze about in bed unless they were sick or feeble, and Mrs. Williams wasn’t either. Leastways, I didn’t think so.”
Nan’s regional, down to earth pragmatism comes through in phrases like “coming up on four-thirty.” She sees the world in vivid pictures with no patience for anything but hard work and loyalty.

Weisgarber helps the reader tune in to the differences in language. When Catherine first comes to Galveston, she’s told it’s time for dinner. Puzzled, she asks, isn’t it lunch? “Here we call it dinner.” And later she wonders at calling a porch a veranda and marvels at what a lovely sounding word veranda is. Cleverly, Weisgarber always has Catherine refer to the midday meal as lunch, but porch gives way immediately to veranda, both in her thoughts and in conversation. Such is the selective snobbery about her new home that will leave open the door just wide enough for a marvelous bond to slip in—more than one, we learn by the very end. That slipping is a wonder to watch. Those bonds are the joy of this book.

At a writing conference Weisgarber critiqued a few pages of the novel I was working on. In that short time, her insights and the deftness of her suggestions made me realize she must be a really fine writer. I was drawn to read her book and I’m so glad I did. As her critique gave me a truly useful epiphany, so her fiction will give all her readers a richer understanding of what we are all about. Grounded in a specifically depicted setting, she reaches invisibly for the universal. The magic of great literature.