‘Why, what’s wrong with it?’ Antonio wants to know,
wounded.
Giambattista has raised his hand for silence. ‘Elaborate,
Monsieur Roger.’
From his bag Estienne conjures forth one of his own
printed pages of sheet-music and sets it on the table before
Giambattista. ‘Why not look for yourself?’ he invites the copier,
brimming with self-confidence.
Antonio has got up and stands behind his father as he
starts to skim through the pages. ‘Mother Mary!’ mutters the
priest, his eyes growing ever wider with admiration. They have
nevers seen such resolution and clarity before. Triumphant, the
publisher describes how his books are printed. By employing a
copperplate engraving process in place of lead typesetting he can
achieve far greater sharpness and detail. The exact intention of the
composer can be clearly made out from every note on the sheet,
each of which is spotlessly clean. There is no bleeding of ink and
the paper looks whiter than ever before in manuscript.
‘It’s beautiful work,’ admits Giambattista. ‘You’ve fully
convinced us on that front. But there are other things at stake.’ He
pauses. Estienne grins, now confident he has his case half won. ‘I
agree entirely,’ he says. ‘I should like to make you an offer,’ a trace
of irony creeps into his voice, ‘so that you may compare it at your
leisure with others you have already received.’
Giambattista does not hesitate for a moment. He invites
the publisher to resume his seat and asks Antonio to pour them all
a glass of wine.
‘If you write the work exclusively for me, I will give you
an advance. I will then pay you a sum upon receipt of the
manuscript, and the remainder will be paid as a percentage on
sold copies,’ Roger completes his proposal. It takes more than a
bottle for the three gentlemen to arrive at a final agreement.
There are handshakes all round and Giambattista puts everything
down on paper immediately. ‘Then there can be absolutely no
confusion over it!’ declares Vivaldi senior, strewing sand over the
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