Daland's home stood, as a sailor's home should, near the sea. Through
its white-curtained windows one could see far out over the blue water,
to the broad horizon, where ships hovered like white birds against the
sky.
Inside the house all was as sweet and clean as the willing hands of old
Marie, the house-keeper, could make it. The walls, rough and unpainted,
were almost covered with flat blue maps and sailor's charts, save where,
over the wide doorway, a single picture hung.
It was the picture of a man; a man with a pale face, a long, black
beard, and strange, foreign-looking clothes. But I do not need to tell
you who he was. You know the story behind those melancholy eyes that
looked out so sadly from the picture. You have heard it this very day.
Had you entered that sunny room on a certain afternoon long, long ago,
you would have seen a group of happy girls, under the direction of
Marie, all diligently spinning. And, had you stopped to listen, you
would have heard merry chatter and light-hearted snatches of song
mingled with the whir-r, whir-r, whir-r-r of those quick-turning wheels.
How they joked, and laughed, and sang, those girls of long ago!
Did I say all? No, not all. For there was one who sat quite apart, her
idle hands in her lap, her young face uplifted, and her dreaming eyes
fixed on the portrait over the door. She was Senta, the daughter of
Daland.
Once, when Senta was very young, old Marie had told her the history of
that pale man in the picture, and the sadness of his fate, and that of
his unhappy crew, had touched her tender heart. And, because she was an
imaginative girl, who fancied strange things, the picture of the Flying
Dutchman, wandering over unknown seas, came back to her mind again and
again. She thought of him by day; she dreamed of him by night. She even
began to imagine that God had destined her to be that maiden fair whose
love would deliver him from his mournful roaming. But certainly she
never breathed such a strange thought to a single soul.
Until that day! Then, as all the busy girls laughingly teased her for
her idleness, and twitted her for being in love with a mere shadow
instead of with the real, strong, young hunter Eric, who wanted to marry
her, she grew impatient. To still their chatter, she cried out
fretfully:
"Oh, girls, cease your foolish songs and your spinning! I am tired of
all the humming and buzzing. Do you want me to join you? Listen, and
I'll sing the ballad of the Flying Dutchman. Then you'll know why his
sad fate touches my heart."
Senta began her singing. The girls stopped their wheels to listen, and
as they listened, their eyes grew round with wonder. They, too, pitied
the poor captain and his unhappy crew. But when Senta described these
aimless wanderings that nothing could change except that maiden fair who
would be willing to die for love, the girls interrupted her.
"Oh!" cried they. "Where in all the world is there such a maiden?"
"Here!" answered Senta, and she sang:
"Angel above, oh! bring to me
The pale man sailing o'er the sea!"
Do you wonder that all the girls, even Marie, started up in alarm when
they heard that strange prayer? No doubt they thought Senta had gone out
of her mind. Loudly they called, until Eric the hunter came running into
the room. He reasoned, he pleaded with Senta, but all in vain. She could
think of nothing but the story of the man whose picture hung on the
wall.
Just when the excitement was greatest, a cry from without told of the
approach of Daland's boat. There was no time for foolish thoughts, then.
A meal must be prepared, the table set, the glasses filled! Away hurried
the girls and old Marie.
In a moment Daland was at the door. Who was that pale visitor, so
strangely like the picture above his head, entering behind him? Senta
stared from one to the other. She could scarcely greet her father. She
knew at once who this stranger was, just as you know and as I know. But
Daland knew not.
He, proud and happy, thinking of that ship full of treasures, lost no
time in telling Senta that this was the man he had chosen to be her
husband on the morrow, if she were willing.
Senta was quite willing, for had she not loved this stranger for a long,
long time? As for the Flying Dutchman, he gazed into those trusting
eyes, and was filled with a great joy and a greater hope. Often when
tossed about on the cruel waves had he dreamed of a maiden just as
fair, just as pure as this one who now stood before him. If she would
but be constant, all would be well, thought he. And, as he gazed, he
heard her sweet voice saying,
"Whoever thou art, whatever thy fate,
I will be thy love, I will be thy mate."