VISITING DAY – THE MEN''''S WARD
NEKHLYUDOV left home early. A peasant from the country was 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 strewn with green fluff, the wild cherry and the poplars unfolded their long fragrant leaves, and in shops and dwelling-houses the double window-frames were being removed and the windows cleaned.
In the Tolkutchy market, which Nekhlyudov 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 doors of the traktirs. 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 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, calling the people to attend 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 izvozchik did not drive Nekhlyudov 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 a hundred steps from the prison. To the right there were several low wooden buildings; to the left a two-storied house with a signboard. The huge brick building, the prison proper, was just in front, but the visitors were not allowed to approach it. A sentry was pacing up and down in front, and shouted at any one who tried to pass him.
At the gate of the wooden buildings to the right, opposite the sentry, sat a jailer on a bench, dressed in a 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. Nekhlyudov also went up, and gave the name of Katerina Maslova. The jailer wrote down the name.
“Why don’t they admit us ?” asked Nekhlyudov.
“The service is going on. When the mass is over you’ll be admitted.”
Nekhlyudov stepped aside from the waiting crowd. A barefooted man in tattered clothes, crumpled hat, and with red streaks all over his face, detached himself from the crowd and moved towards the prison.
“Now then, where are you going?” shouted the sentry with the rifle.
“ You hold your row,” answered the tramp, not in the least abashed by the sentry’s words, but turning back nevertheless. “Well, if you’ll not let me in, I can wait. But, no! Must needs shout, as if he were a general.”