On the streets, the left sides of which were yet cool, moist and shady, heavy carts and light cabs rumbled and jostled, the tram-cars rang their bells.  The air was agitated by the pealing of the church-bells summoning the people to mass.

The driver stopped at a turn some distance from the prison.  A few men and women stood around, most of them with bundles in their hands.  To the right stood a few frame houses; to the left a two-story building over which hung a large sign.  The large prison itself was directly in front.  An armed soldier walked to and fro challenging every one attempting to pass him.

At the gate of the frame buildings sat the warden in uniform, with an entry booklet in his hand.  He made entries of visitors and those whom they wished to see.  Nekhludoff approached him, gave his name and that of Moslova, and the officer entered them in his book.

“Why don’t they open the door?” asked Nekhludoff.

“The morning service is on.  As soon as it is over you will be admitted.”

Nekhludoff returned among the waiting crowd.

A man in threadbare clothing, rumpled hat and slippers on his bare feet, and his face full of red lines, pushed his way through the crowd and walked toward the prison door.

“Where are you going?” shouted the soldier.

“What are you bawling about?” answered the man, entirely undisturbed by the soldier’s challenge.  “If I can’t go in, I will wait.  No use bawling as if you were a general.”

The crowd laughed approvingly.  Most of the visitors were poorly dressed, even ragged, but, judging by outward appearance, there were also some decent men and women among them.  Beside Nekhludoff stood a well-dressed man, clean shaven, stout and with rosy cheeks, who carried a bundle of what looked like linen.  Nekhludoff asked him if that was his first visit.  The man answered that he came there every Sunday, and they entered into conversation.  He was an employee of a bank, whose brother was under indictment for forgery.  This kind-hearted man told Nekhludoff all his story, and was about to ask him about his own when their attention was attracted by a rubber-tired carriage drawn by a blooded chestnut horse.  The carriage was occupied by a student and a lady whose face was hidden under a veil.  The student alighted, holding in his hand a large bundle.  He approached Nekhludoff and asked him where and how he should deliver the loaves of bread he had brought for the prisoners.  “I brought them at the request of my bride.  That is my bride.  Her parents advised us to bring some alms for the prisoners.”

“I really don’t know, for I am here for the first time, but I think that that officer will tell you,” said Nekhludoff, pointing to the warden in the crown-laced uniform.