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"
Dunyásha
,
you
pack
!
You
will
,
wo
n't
you
,
dear
?
"
And
when
Dunyásha
willingly
promised
to
do
it
all
for
her
,
Natásha
sat
down
on
the
floor
,
took
her
old
ball
dress
,
and
fell
into
a
reverie
quite
unrelated
to
what
ought
to
have
occupied
her
thoughts
now
.
She
was
roused
from
her
reverie
by
the
talk
of
the
maids
in
the
next
room
(
which
was
theirs
)
and
by
the
sound
of
their
hurried
footsteps
going
to
the
back
porch
.
Natásha
got
up
and
looked
out
of
the
window
.
An
enormously
long
row
of
carts
full
of
wounded
men
had
stopped
in
the
street
.
The
housekeeper
,
the
old
nurse
,
the
cooks
,
coachmen
,
maids
,
footmen
,
postilions
,
and
scullions
stood
at
the
gate
,
staring
at
the
wounded
.
Natásha
,
throwing
a
clean
pocket
handkerchief
over
her
hair
and
holding
an
end
of
it
in
each
hand
,
went
out
into
the
street
.
The
former
housekeeper
,
old
Mávra
Kuzmínichna
,
had
stepped
out
of
the
crowd
by
the
gate
,
gone
up
to
a
cart
with
a
hood
constructed
of
bast
mats
,
and
was
speaking
to
a
pale
young
officer
who
lay
inside
.
Natásha
moved
a
few
steps
forward
and
stopped
shyly
,
still
holding
her
handkerchief
,
and
listened
to
what
the
housekeeper
was
saying
.
"
Then
you
have
nobody
in
Moscow
?
"
she
was
saying
.
"
You
would
be
more
comfortable
somewhere
in
a
house
...
in
ours
,
for
instance
...
the
family
are
leaving
.
"
"
I
do
n't
know
if
it
would
be
allowed
,
"
replied
the
officer
in
a
weak
voice
.
"
Here
is
our
commanding
officer
...
ask
him
,
"
and
he
pointed
to
a
stout
major
who
was
walking
back
along
the
street
past
the
row
of
carts
.
Natásha
glanced
with
frightened
eyes
at
the
face
of
the
wounded
officer
and
at
once
went
to
meet
the
major
.
"
May
the
wounded
men
stay
in
our
house
?
"
she
asked
.
The
major
raised
his
hand
to
his
cap
with
a
smile
.
