ooden and
inadequate acting of Anna Flunger, who plays Mary, and loved, I believe
almost worshipped, that young peasant girl, who walked bareheaded and
with downcast eyes through the streets, or who waited upon the guests in
her father's house with such sweet simplicity. To Mrs. Jimmie, Anna
Flunger was the real Virgin Mary, so real, indeed, that I believe that
Mrs. Jimmie could almost have prayed to her.

Even Bee was intensely touched by an act of Peter,--for her lodging was
changed to the house of Thomas and Peter Rendl after we arrived. The
father, Thomas Rendl, plays St. Peter, while his son is again John, the
beloved disciple. He played John in 1890, at the age of seventeen, but
they say that there is not a line in his beautiful, spiritual face to
show the flight of time. His large liquid eyes follow the every movement
of the Master's on the stage, and their expression is so hauntingly
beautiful that even Bee admitted its influence. Bee said that one
evening, as they were sitting around the table, resting for a moment
after supper was finished, the village church bell began to ring for the
Angelus. In an instant the two men and the two women politely made
their excuses and rising, stood in the middle of the room facing
eastward, crossing their hands upon their breasts in silent prayer. Bee
said it was most beautiful to see how simply they performed this little
act of devotion.

I wouldn't let Jimmie know of it for the world, but it has been quite a
trial to me to live in the house with Judas. He plays with such
tremendous power--he makes it seem so real, so close, so near. Once I
asked him if he liked the part, and he broke down and wept. He said he
hated it--that he loathed himself for playing it, and that his one
ambition was to be allowed to play the Christus for just one time before
he died, in order to wipe out the disgrace of his part as Judas and to
cleanse his soul. I cried too, for I knew that his ambition could never
be realised. I told him that perhaps they would allow him to act the
part at a rehearsal, if he told them of his ambition, and the thought
seemed to cheer him. He said he knew the part perfectly, and had often
rehearsed it in private to comfort his own soul.

Such was his sincerity and grief, such his contrition and remorse after
a performance, that it would not surprise me some day to know that the
part had overpowered him, and that he had actually hanged himself.

As to the play itself