# The Complete Works of Count Tolstoy/Childhood/Chapter 15

XV.
Childhood
Happy, happy, irretrievable period of childhood! How can one help loving and cherishing its memories? These memories refresh and elevate my soul and serve me as a source of my best enjoyments.
I remember how, having frisked about until tired, I sat at the tea table in my high chair. It was late. I had long ago drunk my cup of milk and sugar; sleep closed my eyes, but I did not budge from the place, and remained there and listened. How could I help listening ? Mamma was speaking to somebody, and the sounds of her voice were so sweet and so charming. Those sounds alone spoke so eloquently to my heart! With eyes dimmed by sleepiness I looked fixedly at her face, and suddenly she grew so small, so very small, — her face was not larger than a button, but I saw it just as plainly. I saw her looking at me and smiling. I liked to see her so tiny. I blinked my eyes even more, and she became not larger than those little men one sees in the pupil of the eye. I moved, and the whole charm was broken. I squinted, turned around, and in every manner possible tried to renew it, — it was all in vain.
I rose, scampered away, and comfortably lodged myself in an armchair.
"You will fall asleep again, Nikólenka!" said mamma: "you had better go up-stairs."
"I do not want to sleep, mamma," I answered her, and ​indistinct, though sweet, dreams filled my imagination. A healthy childish sleep closed my eyelids, and a few minutes later I lost consciousness and slept until I was awakened. In my waking moments I felt somebody's hand touching me: by the touch alone I could tell her, even in my sleep, and I involuntarily caught that hand and pressed it hard, very hard to my lips.
Everybody had left; one candle was burning in the sitting-room; mamma had said that she would wake me herself. It was she who seated herself on the chair upon which I was asleep, and with her lovely, tender hand patted my hair. Over my ear was heard the familiar voice:
"Get up, my darling, it is time to go to bed."
No indifferent looks embarrassed her: she was not afraid to pour out all her tenderness and love on me. I did not stir, but kissed her hand even harder.
"Do get up, my angel!"
She touched my neck with her other hand, and her soft fingers moved about and tickled me. It was quiet and half-dark in the room; my nerves were aroused by the tickling and by the waking. Mamma was sitting close to me; she touched me; I scented her odour, and heard her voice. All that caused me to leap up, to embrace her neck with both my hands, to press my head to her breast, and, breathing heavily, to say:
"Oh, my dear, dear mother, how I love you!"
She smiled a sad, bewitching smile, took my head into both her hands, kissed my brow, and placed me upon her knees.
"So you love me very much?" She was silent for a moment, then she said: "Remember, you must always love me; you must never forget me! You will not forget your mamma when she is no more? You will not, Nikólenka?"
She kissed me more tenderly yet.
​"Stop, don't say that, my darling, my sweetheart!" I called out, kissing her knees, and tears ran in streams from my eyes, — tears of love and ecstasy.
When, after such a scene, I came up-stairs and stood in my wadded cloak before the holy images, what a wonderful feeling I experienced at the words, "Preserve, O Lord, father and mother!" When, in such moments, I repeated the prayers which my childish lips for the first time lisped after my beloved mother, my love for her and my love for God were strangely mingled in one feeling.
After the prayer I rolled myself into my coverlet, and my heart felt light and cheerful. One dream chased another, — but what were they about? They were intangible, but filled with pure love and hope for bright happiness. I thought of Karl Ivánovich and his bitter fate, — of the only man whom I knew to be unhappy, and I felt so sorry for him, and so loved him, that the tears gushed from my eyes, and I thought: God grant him happiness, and me an opportunity of helping him, and alleviating his sorrow; I was ready to sacrifice everything for him. Then I stuck my favourite china toy, — a hare or a dog, — into the corner of the down pillow, and I was happy seeing how comfortable and snug the toy was there. I also prayed the Lord that He would give happiness to everybody, and that all should be satisfied, and that to-morrow should be good weather for the outing, and then I turned on my other side, my thoughts and dreams became mixed and disturbed, and I fell softly, quietly asleep, my face wet with tears.
Will that freshness, carelessness, need of love, and strength of faith, which one possesses in childhood, ever return? What time can be better than that when all the best virtues, — innocent merriment and limitless need of love, — are the only incitements in life?
Where are all those ardent prayers, where is the best gift — those tears of contrition? The consoling angel ​came on his pinions, with a smile wiped off those tears, and fanned sweet dreams to the uncorrupted imagination of the child.
Is it possible life has left such heavy traces in my heart that these tears and that ecstasy have for ever gone from me? Is it possible, nothing but memories are left?