Johann Schmidt might long for his kvass, and draw in his thin, wan lips at the thought of the taste of it, and bend his black brows and close his sharp eyes as in a dream--it was all of no use, there was no change in store for him.

He had cast his lot in the land of beer and sausages, and he must work out his salvation and the support of his family without a ladleful of the old familiar brew to satisfy his unreasonable caprices.
So, last of all those concerned in the events of the evening, Johann Schmidt went home to bed and to rest.

That power, at least, had remained with him.

Whenever he lay down he could close his eyes and be asleep, and forget the troubles and the mean trifles of his thorny existence.

In this respect he had the advantage of the others.
Vjera lay down, indeed, but the attempt to sleep seemed more painful than the accepted reality of waking.