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On my own mountain tour to Mount Hood and Crater Lake in Oregon late this August, I lugged about a door-stopper, hardcover edition of The Magic Mountain, translated by John E Woods from the original German. It was written by Mann when he was in his fifties around the time of WWI.

After reviewing the erudite introduction by AS Byatt and being admonished that “hurry makes it seem intolerably slow and overloaded”, I proceeded to skim through the book. I slowed down at times to enjoy the elegant descriptions from the omniscient narrator and to worry about whether I was properly appreciating or understanding some of the allegorical narratives.

As a person with medical training, I found the details of the treatment of tuberculosis in the pre-antibiotic era by rest cures in high altitude sanatoriums interesting. The residents must submit to the passage of time at altitude and occasional radical lung surgeries for any hope of survival. Similar to an eldercare institution of today, they are surrounded by the dying and the possibility of the futility of the treatment.

As I sat in a chaise-lounge at 6000 feet overlooking Crater Lake, I wondered if I would have ever mastered the correct way of folding the blankets over myself in preparation for the afternoon rest cure. Mann proposes in the character Castorp, the phenomenon of illness as a refuge from the challenges and disappointments of real life. Castop’s cousin is a victim of his patriotism and the eventual recrudescence of his disease. The other characters in the sanatorium are instructive caricatures engaging for example in romantic difficulties or philosophical struggles over humanism versus religious faith. The narrator gently mocks their characteristics.

And so I hurtled to the end of the novel with little empathy for the protagonist Castorp but many moments of astonishment and bemusement at the use of language and the skill of the translator.

I was sorry to hear of Mary Pratt’s passing this week. In fact, when I was in Ottawa this May I made a special visit to the National Art Gallery to try to see her painting, Red Currant Jelly. I love its vivid celebration of the domestic task of preserving fruit. Sadly, the piece was not on display and I had to console myself with a Gathie Falk work instead. I wrote this small piece a few years ago. It is an imaginary interview with Mary Pratt in her kitchen on the day that she is making the jelly in her painting.

 

Red Currant Jelly

Where was that fourth matching glass on that day when Mary Pratt took the Kodachrome slide for her painting Red Currant Jelly? Had it smashed onto the cold tile floor, the result of some careless or intentional hand? Did the sweeping up of the scattered and grating little Pyrex pieces disappoint her? Did she welcome the asymmetry of the substituted sherbet glass?

She is thirty-three and halfway through her marriage to Christopher. Were they already hissing at each other in the hallways, resentful of each other’s talent and time?

“Mind you,” she cautions, “When you clean the berries, you have to leave the stalks. That’s where all the pectin is. It was my mother’s trick. I use an old pillowcase that I hang up overnight over this bowl.”

She smiles and tips the empty brown stoneware bowl towards me. The creamy cracked glaze interior reveals the long service in this kitchen.

“The juice collects in here overnight. In the morning, I heat it up with a pound of sugar for each pint of juice and then pour it into these glasses. I can see you are wondering about the tinfoil?”

I am still wondering about the missing glass. I see her with frizzing hair, steamed up glasses and burnt, sticky fingers, methodically stirring the boiling pan of jelly. The jelly droppings from the repeated testing are forming a red mess on the small white plate. The kitchen is filled with the syrupy scent of the berries.

“Of course, you know that red is not just a colour.” she says softly, “It’s an emotion.’’

She smiles back at me over her shoulder while continuing to empty the dish rack on the counter of the breakfast dishes.

“And the tinfoil?” I ventured.

“I put the tinfoil on the counter to protect it from stains. The red juice will never come out. You can easily get the fruit stain out of fabric you know but not from the counter. Take this apron for instance.”

She holds up the white apron she wore when she was mashing the currants. The bib is splattered with a constellation of red stains. She fills the kettle and puts it on the gas hob. After several minutes, it whistles imperiously.

“There. Boiling water. I stretch the stained area over this bowl and pour the boiling water through the stain.”

Alchemy. The red stain has vanished into what is now steaming pink water.

“But what about the whole painting?” It felt like it was a good time to ask.

“Well.” she paused. “It’s all about the light. There is a small truth in each point of light. I assemble them into the jelly, the glasses, the plate and the tinfoil. I try to paint the truth.”