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Updated: June 16, 2025
"Oh, what a surprise it was indeed! He never now will leave my side, my legs, or my presence, but I cannot but think, alas, of that seductive piece of mutton!" Poor Fussie! He met his death through the same weakness. It was at Manchester, I think. A carpenter had thrown down his coat with a ham sandwich in the pocket, over an open trap on the stage.
But at Brooklyn one night when we were playing "Charles I." the last act, and that most pathetic part of it where Charles is taking a last farewell of his wife and children Fussie, perhaps excited by his run over the bridge from New York, suddenly bounded on to the stage!
Knowles, who had arranged the reading, my daughter Edy, who was then about nine, Hallam Tennyson, and a dog I think Charlie, for the days of Fussie were not yet. Tennyson, like most poets, read in a monotone, rumbling on a low note in much the same way that Shelley is said to have screamed in a high one.
Said he was trying to run a farm and go to college at the same time! Isn't it a scream? HORACE: We oughta make it more unpleasant for some of those jays. Gives the school a bad name. FUSSIE: But, listen, Horace, honest you'll just die. He said he was going to get the book this afternoon. DORIS: It'll get him all fussed up! And for nothing at all! HORACE: Too bad that class of people come here.
When Fussie first came, Charlie was still alive, and I have often gone into Henry's dressing-room and seen the two dogs curled up in both the available chairs, Henry standing while he made up, rather than disturb them! When Charlie died, Fussie had Henry's idolatry all to himself. I have caught them often sitting quietly opposite each other at Grafton Street, just adoring each other!
FUSSIE: Listen. You know something? Sometimes I think Madeline Morton is a highbrow in disguise. HORACE: Say, you don't want to start anything like that. Madeline's all right. She and I treat each other rough but that's being in the family. FUSSIE: Well, I'll tell you something. I heard Professor Holden say Madeline Morton has a great deal more mind than she'd let herself know.
In the paper they had it that Miss Terry asserted that Fussie was a little terrier, while the hotel people regarded him as a pointer, and funny caricatures were drawn of a very big me with a very tiny dog, and a very tiny me with a dog the size of an elephant! Henry often walked straight out of an hotel where an objection was made to Fussie. If he wanted to stay, he had recourse to strategy.
His religious upbringing always left its mark on him, though no one could be more "raffish" and mischievous than he when entertaining friends at supper in the Beefsteak Room, or chaffing his valued adjutants, Bram Stoker and Loveday. H.J. Loveday, our dear stage manager, was, I think, as absolutely devoted to Henry as anyone except his fox-terrier, Fussie.
It was the 1888 tour, the great blizzard year, that Fussie was left behind by mistake at Southampton. He jumped out at the station just before Southampton, where they stop to collect tickets. After this long separation, Henry naturally thought that the dog would go nearly mad with joy when he saw him again. He described to me the meeting in a letter.
The good children who were playing Princess Mary and Prince Henry didn't even smile; the audience remained solemn, but Henry and I nearly went into hysterics. Fussie knew directly that he had done wrong. He lay down on his stomach, then rolled over on his back, whimpering an apology while carpenters kept on whistling and calling to him from the wings.
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