I mention this circumstance as a warning to wives who are too forgiving and forbearing. About this time there took place a great religious festival in Lucca. According to a legend, one day in far distant times a ship came to—I forget what part of the coast, or what harbour—bearing a sacred image of our Lord, which was at once appropriated by the Luccees.[32] As far as I can remember, it was a rough, ill-modelled effigy, with a black face, but it was held in high veneration by the citizens, and on one night in every year it was carried through the town in a long procession, consisting of the Court, the nobles, the Guilds, and principal burghers of the place. I can recall the scene as the moonlight streamed down on the Duke and Duchess and their attendants, the Duke in full uniform, the Duchess a perfect dream of beauty in soft pale blue, crowned with a heavy tiara of diamonds, and with diamonds studding her whole dress, and glittering and sparkling in the moonlight with a softer brilliancy than can ever be seen in the interior of a room. The ladies and gentlemen of the retinue alike in full dress, and the priests bearing candles and chanting as they went, made a sight never to be forgotten. Footnote 32: According to the tradition, the Volto Santo was carried by Nicodemus, who, after the Crucifixion, was bidden by an angel to make an image of our Lord; but leaving it unfinished, he found the Face had been miraculously completed. It is said to have found its way to the coast of Italy in an open boat, and to have been brought to Lucca in 782. [Sidenote: DUKE AND DUCHESS DE BOURBON] One morning, after a ball at the ducal palace, the lady in waiting, to whom I have already referred, told me that the Duchess was suffering from a violent headache, arising from the weight of the diadem, which she had not worn for some time. This struck me as a symbol, and the next morning I wrote the following lines, which I gave to the Marchesa:— “Once more, oh joy! once more alone, The pageant’s at an end And all the crowded train are gone, The courtier, flatterer, friend. All, all is hushed and silent now, I tear the diadem from my brow, Each glittering fillet rend. Oh would I thus my heart could free, And lift its load of misery! “I am alone, oh joy untold! My splendid task is o’er, My heart of griefs I may unfold, And swell the grievous store. I need not face the hollow smile, With a weeping bosom all the while, My tears may freely pour. I need not speak of trivial things, When every word fresh torture brings.