From what my cousin [Reginald E. Worsley] and Gogin both tell me I am
sure that Furber is one of the best men we have. My cousin did not like
to send Hyam to him for a violin: he did not think him worthy to have
one. Furber does not want you to buy a violin unless you can appreciate
it when you have it. My cousin says of him:
“He is generally a little tight on a Saturday afternoon. He always
speaks the truth, but on Saturday afternoons it comes pouring out more.”
“His joints [i.e. the joints of the violins he makes] are the closest and
neatest that were ever made.”
“He always speaks of the corners of a fiddle; Haweis would call them the
points. Haweis calls it the neck of a fiddle. Furber always the
handle.”
My cousin says he would like to take his violins to bed with him.
Speaking of Strad violins Furber said: “Rough, rough linings, but they
look as if they grew together.”
One day my cousin called and Furber, on opening the door, before saying
“How do you do?” or any word of greeting, said very quietly:
“The dog is dead.”
My cousin, having said what he thought sufficient, took up a violin and
played a few notes. Furber evidently did not like it. Rose, the dog,
was still unburied; she was laid out in that very room. My cousin
stopped. Then Mrs. Furber came in.
R. E. W. “I am very sorry, Mrs. Furber, to hear about Rose.”
Mrs. F. “Well, yes sir. But I suppose it is all for the best.”
R. E. W. “I am afraid you will miss her a great deal.”
Mrs. F. “No doubt we shall, sir; but you see she is only gone a little
while before us.”
R. E. W. “Oh, Mrs. Furber, I hope a good long while.”
Mrs. F. (brightening). “Well, yes sir, I don’t want to go just yet,
though Mr. Furber does say it is a happy thing to die.”
My cousin says that Furber hardly knows any one by their real name. He
identifies them by some nickname in connection with the fiddles they buy
from him or get him to repair, or by some personal peculiarity.
“There is one man,” said my cousin, “whom he calls ‘diaphragm’ because he
wanted a fiddle made with what he called a diaphragm in it. He knows
Dando and Carrodus and Jenny Lind, but hardly any one else.”
“Who is Dando?” said I.
“Why, Dando? Not know Dando? He was George the Fourth’s music master,
and is now one of the oldest members of the profession.”