Sul Campo Del Mare - Vilenica

V2-2010.PM51486/13/100, 12:14 PMRadoslav PetkovićDestiny, Annotate(Excerpt)BOOK THE FIRSTBEING AN ACCOUNT OF EVENTS IN BYGONE DAYS, OF HEROESBEARING SUNDRY NAMES IN SUNDRY TIMES, AND OF HAPPENINGSWITH PERCHANCE NO NAME FORTHCOMING, FOR WHAT’S IN A NAMESAYS THAT ENGLISH WRITER, THE ONE THEY’RE ALWAYS QUOTING,O BE SOME OTHER NAMECHAPTER IIn which one of the heroes arrives at a singularly surprising conclusion.It was on the fifth of March of the year eighteen-hundred and six, thefirst time it struck Pavel Volkov that everything he had done in life theretofore– as well as anything he might do thereafter – bore a strange, evendisconcerting resemblance to a children’s game. A comparison occurredto him of cities built on sand, for not ten feet away on the shore sat somechildren, busy at the very same thing. In short, Pavel Volkov thought ofthe life he had been leading – one that held out no hope of change tocome – and deemed it pointless, merely something to fill the time whileimagining that he was fulfilling his destiny. The realisation flared up inhis mind and spread like infection throughout his body, and Pavel Volkovwas suddenly overcome and had to sit down on the iron bollard to whichwas moored the brig Saint Nicholas. The bollard itself had begun existenceas a cannon barrel; later it had been packed with sand, welded shutand pounded into the stone pier to securely tie up the very same vesselsit had once been meant to destroy.To his sudden weakness was added astonishment. Until that day – or,to be precise, until that very moment – Pavel Volkov had been the sort ofperson who is satisfied with life – due, among other things, to simply notgiving the matter much thought. Moreover, Volkov had been thoroughlyenjoying the last few months on the bridge as first lieutenant ofthe Archangel Michael, a ship with seventy-four cannon and two hundredtwenty-two sailors, all of them (save the captain) under his command; fora career officer who had just turned thirty-two, a pleasing prospect indeed.He had yet to face anything that might be considered one of life’sthornier problems; in fact, despite the usual run of things for a man of hisage, he had not even been unhappy in love, for whenever he loved hewent about it reasonably. As with any successful man, of course, he hadhis enemies, but no more than the usual assortment. Besides, he was notafflicted with the desire to be universally adored.Even the morning – with its strange new thought lying in wait forhim, dagger in hand – had given no sign of anything out of the ordinary,148