As this was essentially a point for a sailor to decide, the other members of the party at once fell in with this virtual proposal of Mildmay’s, and it was forthwith agreed, without further discussion, that a start should be made at midnight. The men then rose and joined the ladies in the drawing-room, or music-room, as the apartment was indifferently called.
This music-room was a most noble chamber, both as to dimensions and appearance, being the largest room in the ship. It was situated immediately abaft the dining-saloon, from which access to it was gained. It was, however, a much larger apartment than the other, being, like the dining-saloon, the full width of the ship, and forty feet in length between the fore and after bulkheads, its height being ten feet to the lower edge of the massive and richly moulded cornice from which sprang the coved and panelled ceiling. The walls were divided up into panels by a series of fluted pilasters surmounted by elegantly and fancifully moulded capitals upon which rested the above-mentioned cornice. Centrally between the pilasters, the side walls of the apartment were pierced with circular ports, or windows, about eighteen inches in diameter, glazed with plate-glass of enormous thickness that had been specially toughened, by a process invented by the professor, to enable it to withstand the terrific pressure to which it would be subjected when the ship should be submerged to great depths in the ocean. The frames of these ports consisted of foliated wreaths of polished aethereum, presenting the appearance of burnished silver, and were exceedingly decorative in effect. A light rod of aethereum above each port carried a number of burnished rings from which drooped handsome lace curtains, that could either be looped back or allowed to veil the window, according to the fancy of the occupants. Above these, again, were hung a number of exquisite pictures in water-colour. The floor was covered with a very rich and handsome Turkey carpet, into which one sank almost to the ankles, as into a thick bed of soft moss; chairs, couches, and divans of exquisite shape and seductive capacity were scattered here and there about the apartment, and at its fore or wider end stood, close together, a grand piano and a chamber organ, both in superbly modelled aethereum cases, and both, it need scarcely be said, of the finest quality and workmanship obtainable; while the narrower or after end was almost filled by a capacious electric stove, or fireplace, with a most singularly handsome mantelpiece, supported on either side by a beautifully modelled female figure. The centre of the mantelpiece was occupied by a handsome clock, having a set of silvery chimes for the quarters and a deep, rich-toned gong for the hours, and on either side of it were a number of elegantly shaped vases, full of choice hot-house flowers. But the most striking feature of the whole apartment was its beautiful coved and panelled ceiling, with its exquisitely moulded interlacing ribs, the choice and dainty paintings that adorned its panels, and the magnificent skylight that occupied its centre. This skylight, it may be mentioned, was such only in appearance, as it did not pierce the deck or derive its light from the outside; it was merely a fanciful and decorative device of the professor’s, the light emanating from a series of electric lamps shaded by coloured glass screens, so tinted as to permit, by the simple manipulation of certain concealed mirrors, the effect of every description of light, from that of the unclouded midday sun, through every gradation of morning or afternoon light, to that of sunset, the softest dusk of evening, or even the light of the full moon.
The apartment presented a charmingly cosy and comfortable as well as attractive appearance as the four men entered it, the electric stove emitting a cheerful glow and diffusing just the right degree of warmth, while an afternoon effect of brilliant sunlight streamed richly down through the magnificent stained-glass of the skylight in the centre of the ceiling. Lady Olivia and her guest, the young Russian girl, were sitting together on a large divan, in close contiguity to a handsome music cabinet, turning over books and sheets of music, for Feodorovna had consented to sing, and was now searching her hostess’s stock of music in quest of something with which she was familiar.
“Ach, that is good!” exclaimed the professor, as he noted the occupation of the ladies and guessed its import. “My little Feodorovna is about to sing? Then we shall all have a treat, for let me tell you, Lady Olivia, that my young friend possesses the voice of an angel, and the knowledge how to use it properly. Now, what is it to be? Tschaïkowski, Beethoven, Schubert, Brahms, Handel, Mozart? Ah, here is something that will suit your voice, little one, ‘Caro mio ben!’ by Giuseppe Giordani—quaint, delicate, old-fashioned. Come, I will play your accompaniment for you.” And, taking the girl’s hand, von Schalckenberg, who was an accomplished as well as an enthusiastic musician, led her to the piano, at which he forthwith seated himself and at once proceeded to play, with crisp yet delicate touch and manifest enjoyment, the prelude to the song.
And then, indeed, as the professor had promised, the listeners had a treat, for Mlle. Sziszkinski’s voice was of a rare quality, rich, pure, flexible, clear as a silver bell, under perfect control, sympathetic, and peculiarly adapted to render with precisely the correct feeling the pleading words—
“Caro mio ben, credimi almen, senza di te languisce il cor,” etcetera.
Tears gathered in her fine eyes as she sang, and the final note of the song was almost a sob; for she possessed the comparatively rare ability to evolve the feeling and sentiment of the words she sang and make them her own, thus bringing them home to the hearts of those who listened. Yet she laughingly apologised for herself the next moment, as she turned away from the piano, upon receiving the hearty thanks of her little audience; for, although she was a true artist, she was entirely free from any morbidity of feeling, being, in fact, a perfectly natural, light-hearted girl. And her gay and cheerful disposition was already reasserting itself now that, if she might accept the assurances of the professor and her new-found friends, her father’s troubles were nearing their end, and his deliverance from persecution was a matter of but a few hours more.
Then the professor sang a rollicking German students’ song. He was followed by Lady Olivia, who sang Gounod’s “Ave Maria,” accompanied by her husband on the piano, and the professor on the organ. Then Mildmay produced his violin. And so the time slipped rapidly on until the clock upon the mantelpiece struck the hour of midnight, when “Good-nights” were said, and the ladies retired to their respective cabins; while the four men wended their way to the pilot-house to indulge in a final smoke, and incidentally to raise the Flying Fish into the air and start her upon her long flight across Russia, from north to south.