On a little black wooden cross appears this other inscription:
Virginia Acerbi, Anno 72, 1824.
Morta nel bacio del Signore.
The years are harsh to a fair Venetian woman.
San Michele di Murano.
Antonio said to me:
"When this cemetery is full, they will give it a rest and bury the dead in the Isola di San Michele di Murano[116]."
The expression was a correct one: when the harvest is gathered, one lets the soil lie fallow and ploughs other furrows elsewhere.
Venice, September 1833.
We have been to see that other field awaiting the Great Husbandman. San Michele di Murano is a smiling monastery with a graceful church, porticoes and a white cloister. The windows of the convent give a view, over the porticoes, of Venice and the lagoons; a garden filled with flowers meets the turf whose compost is still being prepared under the fresh-coloured skin of some young girl. This charming retreat is given over to Franciscans; it would better suit nuns singing like the little pupils of Rousseau's Scuole:
"How happy are they," says Manzoni, "who have taken the holy veil before fixing their eyes on a man's face."