Daland, comes ashore
and climbs upon a rock to study the landscape. He recognises the
spot, seven miles from the harbour of home where his daughter Senta
awaits his return, whom he had thought by this hour to be clasping
in his arms. "But he who counts upon the wind," he philosophises,
"is counting upon the mercy of Satan!" There is nothing to do but
wait until the storm subsides. He returns on board, sends the tired
crew below to rest after their long struggle with the storm, leaves
the watch to the mate, and himself retires to the cabin. The mate,
alone on deck, after going the round, seats himself at the helm.
The violence of the storm has somewhat diminished, the sky has
lightened. To keep awake, he sings,--a love-song, ingenuous as
sailors are; which does not however fulfil its purpose, for the
singer, more and more oppressed with drowsiness, drops off before
the last bar.

The storm once more gathers force, the sky darkens. A ship appears
in the distance, with blood-red sails and black masts. It rapidly
nears shore and noiselessly turns into the bay beside Daland's. The
anchor drops with a crash. The Norwegian mate starts, but, half-blind
with sleep, discerning nothing to take alarm at, drops off again.
Without a sound the crew of the strange ship furl their sails and
coil their ropes. The captain, singularly pale, black-bearded, in
a black Spanish costume of long-past fashion, lands alone. It is
he whom ballads call the Flying Dutchman. Seven years have passed
since he last touched land. His opportunity has returned, to reach
out for salvation. He comes ashore wearily, perfunctorily, without
hope, or doubt but that the ocean will soon be receiving him back
for continued desperate wanderings. "Your cruelty, proud ocean,"
he apostrophises it, "is variable, but my torment eternal! The
salvation which I seek on land, never shall I find it. To you,
floods of the boundless main, I shall be found faithful until your
last wave break and your last moisture dry!

"How often--" he cries, as in fixed despair he gazes back over the
past, "How often, filled with longing to die have I cast myself
into the deepest abysses of the sea, but death, alas! I could not
find! Against the reefs where ships find dreadful burial I have
driven my ship, but it found no grave! Inciting him to rage, I have
defied the pirate--I hoped to meet with death in fierce battle.
'Here,' I have cried, 'show your prowess! Full of treasure are
ship an