An actor’s day, even in London, is often a heavy one. Breakfast between nine and ten is the rule, then a ride or some form of exercise, and the theatre at eleven or twelve for a “call,” namely, a rehearsal. This “call” may go on till two o’clock or later, at which hour light luncheon is allowed; but if the rehearsal be late, and the meal consequently delayed, it is impossible to eat again between five and six, consequently the two meals get merged into one. Rehearsals for a new play frequently last a whole month, and during that month the players perform eight times a week in the old piece, and rehearse, or have to attend the theatre nearly all day as well. Three months is considered a good run for a play—so, as will be seen, the company scarcely recover from the exertions of one play before they have to commence rehearsing for another, to say nothing of the everlasting rehearsals for charity performances. The actor’s life is necessarily one of routine, and routine tends to become monotonous.
A well-known actor was a very absent-minded man except about his profession, where habit had drilled him to punctuality. One Sunday he was sitting in the Garrick Club when a friend remarked he was dining at A——.
He rushed home, dressed, and went off to the dinner, during the course of which his neighbour asked him if he were going to the B.’s.
“I’d really forgotten it—but if you are going I’ll go too.”
About midnight he got home. His wife was sitting in full evening dress with her gloves and cloak on.
“Late? I thought it was early. It is only a quarter past twelve.”
“I’ve been waiting for nearly two hours.”
“Why, you arranged to fetch me a little after ten o’clock to go to the B’s.”
“God bless me—I forgot I had a dinner-party, forgot there was a _soirée_, and forgot I had a wife.”
“And where’s your white tie?” asked his wife stiffly.
“Oh dear, I must have forgotten that too! Dear, dear, what a man I am away from the stage and my dresser!”
There is a wonderful _bonne camaraderie_ among all people engaged in the theatrical profession.
Theatrical people are as generous to one another in misfortune as the poor. In times of success they are apt to be jealous; but let a comrade fall on evil days, let him be forced to “rest” when he wants to work, and his old colleagues will try and procure him employment, and when work and health fail utterly, they get up a benefit for him. These benefits take much organising; they often entail endless rehearsals and some expense, and yet the profession is ever ready to come forward and help those in need.