I had hardly read this letter before my resolution was taken. I would take the box of bandages myself. In one of those hospitals which Frau Simon was to visit possibly lay Frederick. I would join her and find the dear sufferer—nurse him—save him. The idea seized me with compelling force—so compelling that I held it to be a magnetic influence from afar, derived from the longing wish with which the dear one was calling for me.
Without telling anyone in my family of my purpose—for I should only have encountered resistance on all hands—I embarked on the journey a few hours after the receipt of Bresser’s letter. I had given out that I wanted to look out the things which the doctor required, in Vienna, and send them off myself, and so I managed to get away from Grumitz without difficulty. From Vienna I meant to write to my father “I am off to the seat of war.” It is true that doubts arose in me—my incapacity and want of experience, my horror of wounds, blood, and death—but I chased these doubts away. What I was doing I was compelled to do. The gaze of my husband was fixed on me, in prayer and supplication. From his bed of pain he was stretching his arms out after me, and “I am coming, I am coming,” was all I was able to think of.
I found the city of Vienna in unspeakable excitement and confusion. Disturbed faces all round me. My carriage came across a number of carriages full of wounded men. I was always looking to see whether Frederick might be among them. But no! His longing cry, which vibrated in my vitals, rang from far away, from Bohemia. If he had been sent off home the news would have come to us simultaneously.
I drove to an hotel. From thence I went to look after my purchases, sent the letter which I had prepared for Grumitz, got myself equipped in a travelling costume most adapted for rough work, and drove to the Northern Station. I wanted to take the first train that was starting, so as to reach my destination in good time. I had a single fixed idea under whose domination I carried out all my movements.
At the station all was in a bustle of life, or should I say a bustle of death? The halls, the waiting-room, the platform, all full of wounded, some of them at their last gasp. And a corresponding crowd of people, sick nurses, soldiers of the sanitary department, sisters of mercy, physicians, men and women of all ranks and occupations, who had come there to see whether the last train had brought one of their relations; or again, to distribute presents, wine and cigars, among the wounded. The officials and servants, busy everywhere in pushing back the folks who were pushing forward. They wanted to send me off too.
“What do you want there? Make way! you are forbidden to give out things to eat and drink. Go to the committee; your presents will be taken in there.”
“No, no,” I said; “I want to set off. When does the next train start?”
It was long before I could get information in reply to this. Most of the departure trains, I found at last, were suspended, in order to keep the line open for the arrival trains which were coming in, one after another, laden with the wounded. For the day there were absolutely no more passenger trains. There was only one with the reserve troops that were being sent forward, and another exclusively reserved for the service of the Patriotic Aid Society, which had to take away a number of physicians and sisters of mercy, and a cargo of necessary material to the neighbourhood of Königgrätz.
“And could not I go by that train?”
“Impossible.”
I heard, ever plainer and more beseeching, Frederick’s cry for help, and could not get to him. It was enough to drive one to despair. Then I espied at the entrance of the hall Baron S⸺, vice-president of the Patriotic Aid Society, whose acquaintance I had first made in the year of the war of ’59. I hastened to him.
“For God’s sake, Baron S⸺, help me. Surely you recognise me?”
“Baroness Tilling, the daughter of General Count Althaus. Of course, I have that honour. What can I do to serve you?”
“You are sending off a train to Bohemia. Let me travel by it! My dying husband is pining for me. If you have a heart—and your action surely proves how fair and noble your heart is—do not reject my prayer!”
There were still all kinds of doubts and difficulties, but in the end my wish was granted. Baron S⸺ called one of the physicians despatched by the Aid Society, and recommended me to his protection as a fellow-traveller.
There was still an hour before our departure. I wanted to go into the waiting-room, but every available space had been turned into an hospital. Wherever you looked, you saw cowering, prostrate, bandaged, pale forms. I could not look at them. The little energy which I possessed I had to save up for my journey, and for its object. I could not venture to expend
