After leaving Riga, where he had accepted the position of
Music Director, which he filled acceptably for some time,
Wagner went to Pillau, where he embarked on a sailing vessel
bound for London. He was accompanied by his wife and by a huge
Newfoundland dog, and during this journey learned to know
the sea, and became familiar with the sound of the sailors'
songs, the creaking of the rigging, the whistling of the wind,
and the roar and crash of the waves. This journey made a deep
impression upon his imagination. He had read Heine's version of
the legend of the Flying Dutchman, and questioned the sailors,
who told him many similar yarns. He himself subsequently said:
'I shall never forget that voyage; it lasted three weeks and a
half, and was rich in disasters. Three times we suffered from
the effects of heavy storms. The passage through the Narrows
made a wondrous impression on my fancy. The legend of the Flying
Dutchman was confirmed by the sailors, and the circumstances
gave it a distinct and characteristic colour in my mind.'
One year later, when in Paris, Wagner submitted detailed sketches
for this work to the Director of the Opera, to whom Meyerbeer
had introduced him. The sketches were accepted, and shortly
after the Director expressed a wish to purchase them. Wagner
utterly refused at first to give up his claim to the plot,
which he had secured from Heine; but, finding that he could
not obtain possession of the sketches, which had already been
given to Foucher for versification, he accepted the miserable
sum of £20, which was all that was offered in compensation.
The stolen opera was produced in Paris under the title of 'Le
Vaisseau Fantôme,' in 1842, but it was never very successful,
and has been entirely eclipsed by Wagner's version. Wagner
had not, however, relinquished the idea of writing an opera
upon this theme, and he finished the poem, which Spohr has
designated as 'a little masterpiece,' as quickly as possible.
The score was written at Meudon, near Paris, and completed,
with the exception of the overture, in the short space of seven
weeks. When offered in Munich and Leipsic the critics pronounced
it 'unfit for Germany,' but, upon Meyerbeer's recommendation,
it was accepted at Berlin, although no preparations were made
for its immediate representation.
'The Flying Dutchman' was first brought out at Dresden in 1843,
four years after the idea of this work had first suggested
itself to the illustrious composer, who conducted the orchestra
in person, while Madame Schröder-Devrient sang the part of
Senta. The audience did not receive it very enthusiastically,
and, while some of the hearers were deeply moved, the majority
were simply astonished. No one at first seemed to appreciate
the opera at its full value except Spohr, who in connection
with it wrote: 'Der Fliegende Holländer interests me in the
highest degree. The opera is imaginative, of noble invention,
well written for the voices, immensely difficult, rather overdone
as regards instrumentation, but full of novel effects; at the
theatre it is sure to prove clear and intelligible.... I have
come to the conclusion that among composers for the stage,
_pro tem._, Wagner is the most gifted.'
The legend upon which the whole opera is based is that a Dutch
captain once tried to double the Cape of Good Hope in the teeth
of a gale, swearing he would accomplish his purpose even if he
had to plough the main forever. This rash oath was overheard
by Satan, who condemned him to sail until the Judgment Day,
unless he could find a woman who would love him faithfully
until death. Once in every seven years only did the Devil allow
the Dutchman to land, in search of the maiden who might effect
his release.
In the first act of the opera, the seven years have just ended,
and Daland, a Norwegian captain, has been forced by a tempest
to anchor his vessel in a sheltered bay within a few miles
of his peaceful home, where Senta, his only daughter, awaits
him. All on board are sleeping, and the steersman alone keeps
watch over the anchored vessel, singing of the maiden he loves
and of the gifts he is bringing her from foreign lands. In the
midst of his song, the Flying Dutchman's black-masted vessel
with its red sails enters the cove, and casts anchor beside
the Norwegian ship, although no one seems aware of its approach.
The Dutchman, who has not noticed the vessel at anchor so near
him, springs eagerly ashore, breathing a sigh of relief at being
allowed to land once more, although he has but little hope of
finding the faithful woman who alone can release him from his
frightful doom:--
'The term is past,
And once again are ended the seven long years!
The weary sea casts me upon the land.
Ha! haughty ocean,
A little while, and thou again wilt bear me.
Though thou art changeful,
Unchanging is my doom;
Release, which on the land I seek for,
Never shall I meet with.'
The unhappy wanderer then tells how he has braved the dangers of
every sea, sought death on every rock, challenged every pirate,
and how vain all his efforts have been to find the death which
always eludes him.
Daland, waking from his sound slumbers, suddenly perceives the
anchored vessel, and chides the drowsy steersman, who has not
warned him of its approach. He is about to signal to the ship
to ascertain its name, when he suddenly perceives the Dutchman,
whom he questions concerning his home and destination.
The Dutchman answers his questions very briefly, and, upon
hearing that Daland's home is very near, eagerly offers untold
wealth for permission to linger a few hours by his fireside,
and to taste the joys of home.
Amazed at the sight of the treasures spread out before him,
Daland not only consents to show hospitality to this strange
homeless guest, but even promises, after a little persuasion,
to allow him to woo and to win, if he can, the affections of
his only daughter, Senta:--
'I give thee here my word.
I mourn thy lot. As thou art bountiful,
Thou showest me thy good and noble heart.
My son I wish thou wert;
And were thy wealth not half as great,
I would not choose another.'
Transported with joy at the mere prospect of winning the love
which may compass his salvation, the Flying Dutchman proclaims
in song his mingled rapture and relief, and while he sings the
storm clouds break, and the sun again shines forth over the
mysteriously calmed sea. The opportunity is immediately seized
by the Norwegian captain, who, bidding the Dutchman follow him
closely, bids the sailors raise the anchor, and sails out of the
little harbour to the merry accompaniment of a nautical chorus:--
'Through thunder and storm from distant seas,
My maiden, come I near;
Over towering waves, with southern breeze,
My maiden, am I here.
My maiden, were there no south wind,
I never could come to thee:
O fair south wind, to me be kind!
My maiden, she longs for me.
Hoho! Halloho!'
The next scene represents a room in Daland's house. The rough
walls are covered with maps and charts, and on the farther
partition there is a striking portrait of a pale, melancholy
looking man, who wears a dark beard and a foreign dress.
The air is resonant with the continual hum of the whirling
spinning-wheels, for the maidens are all working diligently
under the direction of Maria, the housekeeper, and soon begin
their usual spinning chorus. Their hands and feet work busily
while two verses of the song are sung, and all are remarkably
diligent except Senta, who sits with her hands in her lap,
gazing in rapt attention at the portrait of the Flying Dutchman,
whose mournful fate has touched her tender heart, and whose
haunting eyes have made her indulge in many a long day-dream.
Roused from her abstraction by the chiding voice of Mary, and by
her companions, who twit her with having fallen in love with a
shadow instead of thinking only of her lover Erik, the hunter,
Senta resumes her work, and to still their chatter sings them
the ballad of the Flying Dutchman. When she has described his
aimless wanderings and his mournful doom, which naught can change
until he finds a maiden who will pledge him her entire faith, the
girls mockingly interrupt her to inquire whether she would have
the courage to love an outcast and to follow a spectral wooer.
But when Senta passionately declares she would do it gladly, and
ends by fervently praying that he may soon appear to put her love
and faith to the test, they are almost as much alarmed as Erik,
who enters the room in time to hear this enthusiastic outburst.
Turning to Mary, the housekeeper, he informs her that Daland's
ship has just sailed into the harbour in company with another
vessel, whose captain and crew he doubtless means to entertain.
At these tidings the wheels are all set aside, and the maidens
hasten to help prepare the food for the customary feast. Senta
alone remains seated by her wheel, and Erik, placing himself
beside her, implores her not to leave him for another, but to
put an end to his sorrows by promising to become his wife. His
eloquent pleading has no effect upon her, however, and when
he tries to deride her fancy for the pictured face, and to
awaken her pity for him by describing his own sufferings,
she scornfully compares them to the Dutchman's unhappy fate:--
'Oh, vaunt it not!
What can thy sorrow be?
Know'st thou the fate of that unhappy man?
Look, canst thou feel the pain, the grief,
With which his gaze on me he bends?
Ah! when I think he has ne'er found relief,
How sharp a pang my bosom rends!'
Erik, beside himself with jealousy, finally tells her that
he has had an ominous dream, in which he saw her greet the
dark stranger, embrace him tenderly, and even follow him out
to sea, where she was lost. But all this pleading only makes
Senta more obstinate in her refusal of his attentions, and
more eager to behold the object of her romantic attachment,
who at that very moment enters the house, following her father,
who greets her tenderly. The sudden apparition of the stranger,
whose resemblance to the portrait is very striking, robs Senta
of all composure, and it is only when her father has gently
reproved her for her cold behaviour that she bids him welcome.
Daland then explains to his daughter that his guest is a wanderer
and an exile, although well provided with this world's goods, and
asks her whether she would be willing to listen to his wooing,
and would consent to ratify his conditional promise by giving
the stranger her hand:--
'Wilt thou, my child, accord our guest a friendly welcome,
And wilt thou also let him share thy kindly heart?
Give him thy hand, for bridegroom it is thine to call him,
If thou but give consent, to-morrow his thou art.'
Wholly uninfluenced by the description of the stranger's
wealth which her father gives her, but entirely won by the
Flying Dutchman's timidly expressed hope that she will not
refuse him the blessing he has so long and so vainly sought,
Senta hesitates no longer, but generously promises to become
his wife, whatever fate may await her:--
'Whoe'er thou art, where'er thy curse may lead thee,
And me, when I thy lot mine own have made,--
Whate'er the fate which I with thee may share in,
My father's will by me shall be obeyed.'
This promise at first fills the heart of the Flying Dutchman
with the utmost rapture, for he is thinking only of himself,
and of his release from the curse, but soon he begins to love
the innocent maiden through whom alone he can find rest. Then he
also remembers that, if she fail, she too will be accursed, and,
instead of urging her as before, he now tries to dissuade her
from becoming his wife by depicting life at his side in the most
unenticing colours, and by warning her that she must die if her
faith should waver. Senta, undeterred by all these statements,
and eager if necessary to sacrifice herself for her beloved,
again offers to follow him, and once more a rapturous thrill
passes through his heart:--
'SENTA.
Here is my hand! I will not rue,
But e'en to death will I be true.