Yes, it is impossible.
(By this time the train which is carrying Naumoff on his mission of death has passed Warsaw and is hastening towards Brünn; hastening, ever hastening through the dawning hours and the noonday sunshine, hastening on into the twilight—and at dusk it rumbles and pants into the station at Vienna.)
I fall fainting back upon my pillows, and all through the day and the night I dream that I am speeding after the rushing train, catching up with it and losing it again, sweeping through the air, tearing along the unending rails, reaching it at last, and being struck down and crushed under its rolling wheels.
Day dawns once more.
“Elise, Elise, bring Naumoff back. Telegraph to him. Elise, for heaven's sake, bring him back!”
“It is hopeless, my lady.”
Yes, it is hopeless.