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, Daland enters, and the act winds up with a showy trio.

No further comment is needed on this act:  in structure, like the first, it is only old-fashioned opera.  It is in the third act that the inherent weakness of the story for operatic purposes shows with almost disastrous results.  Only the sheer force of the music averts a complete breakdown.  The problem was to show Senta literally faithful unto death.  Evidently it was impossible for Vanderdecken to claim and carry off his bride forthwith.  Had that been possible the work might have terminated with a short scene to form the real finale of the second act.  But Vanderdecken had asked for a wife, and Daland would not have dreamed of letting his daughter go until the proper ceremony had taken place.  Besides, Wagner was writing an opera with the very practical view of a performance in the theatre; and in those days of lengthy operas (Rienzi at first played five and a half hours) the public would have grumbled if they did not get enough for their money.  No manager would have looked at a work no longer than the first and second acts of the Dutchman.  The final scene could not be made very lengthy; so the composer determined to pad out the act with pure irrelevant music, and the librettist had to find him words.  In a piano score now before me the essential part of the act, the scene in which Senta redeems the Dutchman, occupies twenty-four pages; and these are preceded by fifty pages of choruses of sailors, maidens and ghosts.  Allowing for the larger space occupied by choruses on the printed page, we are half-way