The working people were already crowding near the traktirs
(tea-houses), the men in clean, long coats gathered in folds in the
back of the waist, and in shining boots; the women in bright-colored
silk shawls and cloaks with glass-bead trimmings. Policemen, with
pistols attached to yellow cords fastened around their waists, stood
at their posts. Children and dogs played on the grass-plots, and gay
nurses sat chatting on the benches.

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."