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.