Otello is one of the few Verdi works not done on commission, and it had the unusually long gestation period of over seven years. We know much of the process because of the many letters between the participants. We also have Boïto's notes on the characters and Verdi's production books. It is the most thoroughly documented of all of the composer's works.
For years, Verdi's publisher, Giulio Ricordi, had been trying to get Verdi to write another Shakespeare opera. (In 1871, he had tried to get him to do an Amleto or Hamlet). Then, in 1879, Verdi and his wife gave a dinner at the Grand Hotel in Milan to which they invited Ricordi and the conductor Franco Faccio. Ricordi was eager for Verdi and Boïto to work together, but relations between the two were still cool. The publisher steered the conversation to Othello at which Verdi eyed him suspiciously. Although he felt it had little to do with Shakespeare, he pointed out that Rossini's 1816 Otello was still being played. However he agreed to meet with the librettist. Three days late Boïto brought him a scenario; Verdi liked it and encouraged him to finish it "for me, for you...for someone else". However, the project was soon shelved while Boïto did revisions for Verdi's earlier opera, Simon Boccanegra, and it almost came to an end when Boïto was erroneously quoted as saying he regretted not being able to set the libretto himself. Insulted, Verdi thought this meant the librettist did not think him capable of doing it and he offered to give the rights to the libretto back. Boïto convinced Verdi he wanted him to do the score. The revision of the French Don Carlos to the Italian Don Carlo also caused an interruption.
Boïto suggested calling the opera Iago to avoid confusing the new work with Rossini's, and because the villain is really the central character. Verdi insisted on Otello. In 1884 Boïto sent Verdi the words of Iago's Credo saying, "see how many knavish things I have made him say". Verdi replied that it was "most beautiful, most powerful, and wholly Shakepearean". Every detail was carefully thought out. Electrical lighting was new (it had just been added to Verdi's hotel rooms), and he instructed that, "Before the orchestra begins, the lighting in the hall must be very considerably lowered". Boïto advised the costume designers to study the Venetian painters of late fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries.
By 1885 the score was essentially completed but the orchestration was not finished until November 1, 1886. When rehearsals began in January 1887, Verdi was 73. He insisted the singers ACT, not just sing. The rehearsals were closed, and he made sure no advanced notices reached press; he knew that he and Boïto had made a masterpiece of a masterpiece.
The Iago was the French baritone, Victor Maurel, one of most remarkable artists of time. He was born in Marseilles in 1848 and trained as an architect but switched to singing, entering the Paris Conservatoire in 1866. (He was a member of the chorus for the first Don Carlos. He decided to shave his beard for the role of Iago because it made him look too gentle and the movement of his face needed to be clearly seen. Boïto and Verdi objected, but Maurel had his way as evidenced by the picture taken of him with Verdi in his dressing room.
The Otello was Francesco Tamagno; Romilda Pantaleoni sang Desdemona; and Franco Faccio conducted. Maurel hated Tamagno as much as Iago hated Otello, because the temor earned higher fees. Maurel said, "God has created a perfect idiot, he says to him, 'You shall be a tenor'". Verdi responded, "The baritone may, of course, be a better artist than the tenor, and Maurel is infinitely more intelligent than Tamagno. But the diamond is more valuable than other stones, not because it is more beautiful, but because it is more rare".
The première, one of most important events in Italian operatic history, was on February 1, 1887. The Mayor of Milan ordered the streets and squares around the La Scala Opera House closed that morning to control the tremendous crowds which collected all day in anticipation of the great event.
In her life of Verdi, Blanche Roosevelt described the occasion.
The Piazza della Scala was a sight to see, and the cries of 'Viva Verdi! Viva Verdi!' were so deafening that I longed for cotton in my ears. Poor Verdi! Had he been there, he would certainly have been torn to pieces, as a crowd in its enthusiasm rarely distinguishes between glory and assassination....The cast was certainly weak. Victor Maurel is the only real artist in the opera, and he is a Frenchman....Tamagno, the tenor, looked and acted Otello, but he did not sing — he bleated....Madame Pantaleoni is an excellent person, but as Desdemona she ought to have been suppressed the night before at her dress rehearsal.....The ovations to Verdi and Boïto reached the climax of enthusiasm. Verdi was presented with a silver album filled with autographs and cards of every citizen in Milan. He was called out twenty times, and at the last recalls, hats and handkerchiefs were waved, and the house rose in a body. The emotion was something indescribable, and many wept. Verdi's carriage was dragged by citizens to the hotel. He was toasted and serenaded; and at five in the morning I had not closed my eyes in sleep for the crowds still singing and shrieking 'Viva Verdi! Viva Verdi!'. Who shall say that this cry will not re-echo all over the world.
Later, in an interview with Blanche Roosevelt, Boïto described his reaction.
When I heard my name, I was strangely touched. I had not thought about it. I was up in a box with Signora Verdi when the maestro sent for us. We went to the stage, and when we were called he started, then turned in a half-dazed way for me. He took my hand. No, I shall never forget it....Ah! Verdi said more to me in that single hand-clasp than he has said in all our previous intercourse: more than anyone ever will say.
The future great conductor, Toscanini, was a cellist with the La Scala orchestra for the première and was overwhelmed. When he reached his mother's house several days later he woke her and shouted, "Otello is a masterpiece! Get on your knees, mother, and say, 'Viva, Verdi!'". Half asleep the woman obeyed.
After the Milan première, Verdi was at loose ends and despondent, writing the following to Giuseppe Giacosa, one of the librettists for Madama Butterfly.
I shall now suffer such loneliness. Till now I used to wake each morning and return to the love, anger, jealousy, deceit of my characters....Since Otello now belongs to the public, it has ceased to be mine, it has become totally detached from me; and the place that it occupied within me was so great that I now feel an enormous void, which I think I shall never be able to fill.
Yet he was still to write one more opera, one of his greatest, and again with Boïto. It is the 1893 Falstaff.