here to the piece, but
dramatically he is nothing more than Senta's opportunity personified.
The girls spin on; a kind of forewoman, Mary, upbraids Senta with
idling and staring at the picture and dreaming away her life--for the
girl is quite open about her sympathy with the accursed seafaring
man. She wants Mary to sing the _Flying Dutchman_ ballad; Mary curtly
refuses; "Then," rejoins Senta, for all the world like a leading lady
in a melodrama giving the cue for the band to begin the royalty-song,
"I'll sing it myself"; and, despite protests, she does. It recounts,
of course, the story of the Dutchman prior to his meeting with Daland.
At the end she announces her intention of saving him; and while the
women are expostulating, Eric rushes in to add his voice to theirs. He
tells them Daland's ship is in sight; and all save he and Senta scurry
off to make preparations. Eric wishes to marry her, and pleads his
cause; she asks him what his griefs are compared with those of the
doomed man whose picture hangs on the wall. He (rightly) thinks her
semi-demented, and tells a dream he had: of the Dutchman entering, of
Senta at once giving herself to him, and then sailing away. His story
has a result precisely contrary to what he intended and hoped: her
ecstasy becomes more violent than ever; he (the Dutchman) seeks her
and she will share his grief with him. Eric rushes off in despair and
horror; Senta subsides; she prays that the Dutchman may be able to
find her--and her father and Vanderdecken enter.

She stands mazed, not greeting her father nor uttering a word, gazing
at the stranger. Now Daland, I have already remarked, has noticed no
resemblance between this man and the picture, and he cannot understand
his daughter's silence. Finally she salutes him and asks about
Vanderdecken; and Daland, in haste, discloses his plan. Neither
Vanderdecken nor Senta speaks; so, with a stroke of the old-fashioned
opera trickery, Wagner makes Daland feel himself _de trop_ and go
away. Vanderdecken at once begins his story, and the pair sing a duet,
which I will deal with shortly; for the moment I need only remind the
reader that Senta's mind was made up in advance. When the Dutchman,
almost warningly, reminds her that it is nothing less than a life's
devotion he demands, she proudly answers, "Whoever you are, whatever
the curse on you, I will share your life and your doom." The
librettist now having need of his services for the finale, Dalan