At the end of one of the bridges we saw two cabin-boys coming towards us. Gesril said to me: ‘Are we going to let those ragamuffins pass?’ and promptly shouted at them: ‘Into the water with you, ducks!’ They, in their capacity as cabin-boys, refused to see the joke and continued to come forward; Gesril retreated; we stationed ourselves at the end of the bridge and, picking up pebbles from the beach, we hurled them at the cabin-boys. They bore down on us, forcing us to give ground, armed themselves too with pebbles, and drove us back to our servants. Unlike Horatius I was not wounded in the eye: a stone struck me so hard that it practically cut off my left ear, which hung down over my shoulder.

I did not give a thought to my injury but only to my return home. When my friend came home with a black eye and a torn coat, he was comforted, caressed, coddled, and given a change of clothing: in similar circumstances I was scolded and punished. The injury I had received was a dangerous one, but nothing La France could say would persuade me to go home, I was so frightened at the idea. I went and hid on the second floor of the house with Gesril, who bound my head up in a towel. This towel put him in a merry mood: it reminded him of a mitre; he turned me into a bishop and made me celebrate High Mass with him and his sisters until supper-time. The pontiff was then obliged to go downstairs, his heart beating wildly. Surprised to see my face covered with bruises and blood, my father said nothing; my mother gave a shriek of horror; La France explained what had happened, making excuses for me; I was nonetheless given a good dressing-down. My ear was patched up, and M. and Mme de Chateaubriand resolved to separate me from Gesril as soon as possible.

I believe it was that year that the Comte d’Artois came to Saint-Malo: he was treated to the sight of a naval battle. Looking down from the bastion of the powder-magazine, I saw the young prince in the midst of the crowd on the shore: in his glory and my obscurity, how great was the unknown quantity of fate! Thus, unless my memory is at fault, Saint-Malo has seen only two Kings of France, Charles IX and Charles X.

Such was my childhood. I do not know whether the strict upbringing I was given is good in principle, but it was adopted by my family without any set purpose and as a natural consequence of their temperaments. What is certain is that it made my ideas less like those of other men; what is even more certain is that it marked my feelings with a melancholy character born of the habit of suffering at a time of life of weakness, improvidence, and joy.

It may occur to some of my readers that this system of education was likely to make me detest my parents. This was not at all the case; the memory of their strictness is almost dear to me; I honour and esteem their great qualities. When my father died, my comrades in the Navarre Regiment were witnesses to my grief. As for my mother, it is to her that I owe the consolation of my life, since it is to her that I owe my faith; I listened to the Christian truths that came from her lips with the same fervour as Pierre de Langres studying at night in a church, by the light of the lamp burning before the Blessed Sacrament. Would my mind have been better developed if I had been sent to school earlier? I doubt it: these waves, these winds, this solitude which were my first masters were probably better suited to my native dispositions; perhaps I have these wild teachers to thank for certain qualities I would otherwise lack. The fact is that no system of education is intrinsically preferable to another: do the children of today love their parents more because they address them familiarly and no longer fear them? Gesril was spoilt in the same house where I was scolded: we both of us grew up decent men and affectionate and respectful sons. Something you consider bad may bring out your child’s talents; something you consider good may stifle those same talents. God’s wisdom is infinite; it is Providence which guides our footsteps when it destines us to play a part on the stage of this world.

Three

Youth

My mother had never relinquished her desire that I should be given a classical education. The sailor’s life for which I was destined ‘would not be to my taste’, she used to say; in any event she thought it advisable to render me capable of following another career. Her piety led her to hope that I would decide upon the Church. She therefore proposed that I should be sent to a school where I would learn mathematics, drawing, fencing, and English; she did not mention Greek and Latin for fear of alarming my father, but she intended that I should be taught those languages, secretly to begin with, and then openly when I had made sufficient progress. My father accepted her proposal, and it was agreed that I should enter the College of Dol. This town was chosen because it lay on the road from Saint-Malo to Combourg.

In the course of the severe winter which preceded my scholastic internment, the house where we were living caught fire; I was rescued by my eldest sister, who carried me through the flames. M. de Chateaubriand, who had retired to his château, sent word to his wife to join him in the spring.

I was to accompany my sisters to Combourg: we set off in the first fortnight of May. We left Saint-Malo at sunrise, my mother, my four sisters, and I, in a huge old-fashioned berline with extravagantly gilded panels, exterior footboards, and purple tassels at the four corners of the roof.