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Updated: June 29, 2025
The result is that, though the play contains some wonderful poetry, and has been from time to time revived, it has never taken any real hold upon popular esteem. The second glaring instance of a blind-alley theme is that of Monna Vanna. We have all of us, I suppose, stumbled, either as actors or onlookers, into painful situations, which not even a miracle of tact could possibly save.
A quick flicker of blue flame jagged across the nave; the thunder came instant, pealing, crackling, braying ruin, fading at last to a distant grumble; and then the rain. No one got home that night with a dry skin; but it was Madonna who had quenched the doubting of Fra Battista, and washed fragrant the memory of Vanna to whomsoever had loved her once.
She was as pretty as a picture, and her charming photograph had graced as many illustrated papers as there were illustrated papers to grace. But Vanna I gleaned her story by bits when I came across her with the child in the gardens. I was beginning to piece it together now.
So we set out perforce, Vanna leading steadily, as if she knew the way. She never looked up, and her wish for silence was so evident, that I followed, lending my hand mutely when the difficulties obliged it, she accepting absently, and as if her thoughts were far away. Suddenly she quickened her pace.
I am no vainer than other men, but I saw that. Whatever her charm might be it was none for me. What could I say to interest her who lived in her foolish little world as one shut in a bright bubble? And she had said the wrong word about young Fitzgerald I wanted Vanna, with her deep seeing eyes, to say the right one and adjust those cruel values.
Such a situation, on the largest possible scale, is that presented in Monna Vanna. It differs from that of Measure for Measure in the fact that there can be no doubt as to the moral aspect of the case. It is quite clear that Giovanna ought to sacrifice herself to save, not one puling Claudio, but a whole city full of men, women, and children.
So enlivening is the neighbourhood of the frontier tribes that haunt the famous Khyber Pass and the menacing hills where danger is always lurking. But there was society here, and I was swept into it there was chatter, and it galled me. I was beginning to feel that I had missed my mark, and must go farther afield, perhaps up into Central Asia, when I met Vanna Loring.
"Rock-crusher" took the ball, with "Barrel" for interference ... they came flashing my way. I was so frenzied with joy over the prospect of getting my poems through to Vanna, even if it was in another man's behalf, that I flung myself forward and brought both stars down with only a yard gained.
And did I as yet certainly know more than the A B C of the hard doctrine by which I must live? "Que vivre est difficile, O mon cocur fatigue!" an immense weariness possessed me a passive grief. Vanna would follow later with the wife of an Indian doctor. I believed she was bound for Lahore but on that point she had not spoken certainly and I felt we should not meet again.
And the way is open to the mountains. There are strange things in this story, but, so far as I understand them, I tell the truth. If you measure the East with a Western foot-rule you will say, "Impossible." I should have said it myself. Of myself I will say as little as I can, for this story is of Vanna Loring. I am an incident only, though I did not know that at first.
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