Nekhludoff left home early. A peasant from the country was still
driving along the side street and calling out in a voice peculiar
to his trade, "Milk! milk! milk!"
The first warm spring rain had fallen the day before, and now
wherever the ground was not paved the grass shone green. The
birch trees in the gardens looked as if they were strewn with
green fluff, the wild cherry and the poplars unrolled their long,
balmy buds, and in shops and dwelling-houses the double
window-frames were being removed and the windows cleaned.
In the Tolkoochi [literally, jostling market, where second-hand
clothes and all sorts of cheap goods are sold] market, which
Nekhludoff had to pass on his way, a dense crowd was surging
along the row of booths, and tattered men walked about selling
top-boots, which they carried under their arms, and renovated
trousers and waistcoats, which hung over their shoulders.
Men in clean coats and shining boots, liberated from the
factories, it being Sunday, and women with bright silk kerchiefs
on their heads and cloth jackets trimmed with jet, were already
thronging at the door of the traktir. Policemen, with yellow
cords to their uniforms and carrying pistols, were on duty,
looking out for some disorder which might distract the ennui that
oppressed them. On the paths of the boulevards and on the
newly-revived grass, children and dogs ran about, playing, and
the nurses sat merrily chattering on the benches. Along the
streets, still fresh and damp on the shady side, but dry in the
middle, heavy carts rumbled unceasingly, cabs rattled and
tramcars passed ringing by. The air vibrated with the pealing and
clanging of church bells, that were calling the people to attend
to a service like that which was now being conducted in the
prison. And the people, dressed in their Sunday best, were
passing on their way to their different parish churches.
The isvostchik did not drive Nekhludoff up to the prison itself,
but to the last turning that led to the prison.
Several persons--men and women--most of them carrying small
bundles, stood at this turning, about 100 steps from the prison.
To the right there were several low wooden buildings; to the
left, a two-storeyed house with a signboard. The huge brick
building, the prison proper, was just in front, and the visitors
were not allowed to come up to it. A sentinel was pacing up and
down in front of it, and shouted at any one who tried to pass
him.
At the gate of the wooden buildings, to the right, opposite the
sentinel, sat a warder on a bench, dressed in uniform, with gold
cords, a notebook in his hands. The visitors came up to him, and
named the persons they wanted to see, and he put the names down.
Nekhludoff also went up, and named Katerina Maslova. The warder
wrote down the name.