In Mary Jane Phillips-Matz’s definitive biography of Verdi, she quoted the outraged composer, adding that, as the “owner of the libretto,” he would only be too glad to “offer it as a gift ‘in the hope of contributing something to the Art we all love.’” Faccio, upon receipt of Verdi’s letter (and with the greatest of tact and diplomacy), wrote back trying to apply cold towels to a potentially heated situation. But instead of firing off a missive to Boito directly, the self-proclaimed “Bear of Busseto,” whose irritability was as renowned as his operatic output, decided to write Boito’s close friend, the conductor and composer Franco Faccio, that he, Verdi, would be glad to return Boito’s manuscript “without any kind of rancor.” That did it! Verdi bristled as he read the account. He had started work on Act I and was looking forward to sketching out the rest, when reports reached him that Boito, in Naples supervising a production of the revised Mefistofele, had mouthed off to a newspaper reporter that “although he had originally written the libretto of Otello almost against his will, he was sorry, now that it was finished, that he could not compose himself.” Verdi had asked Boito for changes to his libretto to the yet to be completed Otello. But an incident occurred in early 1884 that dampened their budding partnership. He and Verdi, the dean of Italian opera composers, had come together to form a cautious if mutually convenient artistic collaboration: Boito, the man of letters, with Verdi, the purveyor of memorable stage works. Leave it to Arrigo Boito to screw up a nearly ideal situation.
Verdi’s ‘Otello’ at the Met Opera: The Act I Brindisi with Alexey Dolgov & Zeljko Lucic (Photo: Ken Howard / Met Opera)
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