Merely the thought of this torture gives me a shudder. I soon found a remedy for it--Akim Akimitch pointed it out to me--a prisoner in the military section who for one kopeck shaved those who paid for it with his own razor. This was his trade. Many of the prisoners were his customers merely to avoid the military barbers, yet these were not men of weak nerves. Our barber was called the “major,” why, I cannot say. As far as I know he possessed no points of resemblance with any major. As I write these lines I see clearly before me the “major” and his thin face. He was a tall fellow, silent, rather stupid, absorbed entirely by his business; he was never to be seen without a strop in his hand, on which day and night he sharpened a razor, which was always in admirable condition. He had certainly made this work the supreme object of his life; he was really happy when his razor was quite sharp and his services were in request; his soap was always warm, and he had a very light hand--a hand of velvet. He was proud of his skill, and used to take with a careless air the kopeck he received; one might have thought that he worked from love of his art, and not in order to gain money. A----f was soundly corrected by our real Major one day, because he had the misfortune to say the “major” when he was speaking of the barber who shaved him. The real Major was in a violent rage. “Blackguard,” he cried, “do you know what a major is?” and according to his habit he shook A----f violently. “The idea of calling a scoundrel of a convict a ‘major’ in my presence.”