Three months had not gone by before he received an appointment on the staff of the Russian embassy in London, whither he set sail (steamers were not even talked about then) in the first homeward bound English vessel he could find.  A few months later he received a letter from Pestof.  The kind-hearted gentleman congratulated him on the birth of a son, who had come into the world at the village of Pokrovskoe, on the 20th of August, 1807, and had been named Fedor, in honor of the holy martyr Fedor Stratilates.  On account of her extreme weakness, Malania Sergievna could add only a few lines.  But even those few astonished Ivan Petrovich; he was not aware that Marfa Timofeevna had taught his wife to read and write.

It must not be supposed that Ivan Petrovich gave himself up for any length of time to the sweet emotion caused by paternal feeling.  He was just then paying court to one of the celebrated Phrynes or Laises of the day—­classical names were still in vogue at that time.  The peace of Tilset was only just concluded,[A] and every one was hastening to enjoy himself, every one was being swept round by a giddy whirlwind.  The black eyes of a bold beauty had helped to turn his head also.  He had very little money, but he played cards luckily, made friends, joined in all possible diversions—­in a word, he sailed with all sail set.

[Footnote A:  In consequence of which the Russian embassy was withdrawn from London, and Ivan Petrovich probably went to Paris.]

IX.

For a long time the old Lavretsky could not forgive his son for his marriage.  If, at the end of six months, Ivan Petrovich had appeared before him with contrite mien, and had fallen at his feet, the old man would, perhaps, have pardoned the offender—­after having soundly abused him, and given him a tap with his crutch by way of frightening him.  But Ivan Petrovich went on living abroad, and, apparently, troubled himself but little about his father.  “Silence! don’t dare to say another word!” exclaimed Peter Andreich to his wife, every time she tried to mollify him.  “That puppy ought to be always praying to God for me, since I have not laid my curse upon him, the good-for-nothing fellow!  Why, my late father would have killed him with his own hands, and he would have done well.”  All that Anna Pavlovna could do was to cross herself stealthily when she heard such terrible words as these.  As to his son’s wife, Peter Andreich would not so much as hear of her at first; and even when he had to answer a letter in which his daughter-in-law was mentioned by Pestof, he ordered a message to be sent to him to say that he did not know of any one who could be his daughter-in-law, and that it was contrary to the law to shelter runaway female serfs, a fact of which he considered it a duty to warn him.  But afterwards, on learning the birth of his grandson, his heart softened a little; he gave orders that inquiries should be secretly made on his behalf about the mother’s health, and he sent her—­but still, not as if it came from himself—­a small sum of money.