edicated himself to them; but then a scented
note from the lady would summon him to join her in her box at the
play, and the evening would be wasted. The power this lady exercised
over him overcame his own will, which would gladly have resisted.
Nevertheless, the rage and weariness he endured as he sat through the
silly performances at the theater caused him such acute suffering that
at last he felt that he hated the fascinating lady.

His determination took a material form: he resolved to create an
_insurmountable_ obstacle between himself and her; he accordingly cut
off the thick plait of hair which adorned his head, the badge of
gentle birth, without which he would have been ashamed to leave the
house; then he had himself bound with ropes to his armchair, where he
spent several days in such agitation that he was unable even to read a
line; it was only the material impossibility of moving, and the
thought of cutting a ridiculous figure, which kept him there, in spite
of the impulse to hasten to the beloved one.

It was thus that he "willed, willed perpetually, with all his
strength," and so left the man within him free to expand; it was thus
he saved himself from futility and perdition and worked for his own
immortality.

And it is something of the same sort that we desire to bring about in
our children by the education of the will; we wish them to learn to
save themselves from the vanities that destroy man, and concentrate on
work which causes the inner life to expand, and leads to great
undertakings; we wish them to work for their own immortality.

This loving and anxious desire inclines us to draw them along shielded
by us. But is there not within the child himself a power which enables
him to save himself? The child loves us with all his heart and follows
us with all the devotion of which his little soul is capable;
nevertheless he has something within himself which governs his inner
life: it is the force of his own expansion. It is this force, for
instance, which leads him to touch things in order to become
acquainted with them, and we say to him, "Do not touch"; he moves
about to establish his equilibrium, and we tell him to "keep still";
he questions us to acquire knowledge, and we reply, "Do not be
tiresome." We relegate him to a place at our side, vanquished and
subdued, with a few tiresome playthings, like an Alfieri in the box at
the theater. He might well think: Why does she, whom I love so dearly,
wa