The Untrained Singer Who Became America’s First Prima Donna

Ponselle rehearses with composer Romano Romani, 1921. (Library of Congress)

The year was 1918. Enrico Caruso, the Metropolitan Opera’s biggest star, had chosen a newcomer to be his leading lady. Her name was Rosa Ponselle, she’d just turned 21, and her debut sent critics scurrying for adjectives. She “made a sensational impression and was sensationally received.” She showed “incomparable charm and dramatic ability.” Her voice was “rich, sensuous, … capable of all the lights and shades of operatic expression.”

Who was this musical marvel? Most of the Met’s singers were foreign-born, and all had learned their art and musicianship in Europe. Few in that opening night audience knew that Rosa had never been to Europe. She’d also never performed in an opera house or had much vocal training. Only a few years earlier, in fact, she’d sung popular songs in a movie theater for $25 a week.

Reluctant Genius

Rosa Ponzillo was born in 1897 to Italian immigrant parents in Meriden, Connecticut. Her father was a tradesman and her mother ran a bakery. Her older sister Carmela dreamed of becoming “a great singing actress,” so at age 21 she moved to Manhattan to study voice and make connections. Rosa had no such ambition, but she loved to play piano and sing and was known in school for her excellent sight-reading.

Rosa was singing at a café in New Haven, to supplement the family income, when its owner, James Ceriani, told her she belonged in opera, not in a restaurant. He offered to make arrangements and pay all her expenses to go study in Europe, but Rosa declined. She wrote later: “I had no ambition. … I didn’t want to get on a boat and go to Italy. I didn’t want opera.”

She did let Ceriani take her to New York to visit Carmela and see her first opera. She liked it, but opera was Carmela’s dream, not hers.

In 1915, Carmela learned that her parents had fallen so far behind on their mortgage that they were about to lose their home. She told Rosa it was up to them to support the family. Carmela had a vaudeville gig lined up, so she asked her manager to add Rosa to the act. He took one look at the shy, chubby teenager and nixed the idea.

Soprano Rosa Ponselle (C) with her sister, mezzosoprano Carmela Anna Ponselle (L), and Edith Prilik, Rosa’s secretary. (Library of Congress)

Undeterred, Carmela got them both hired to sing at Lorber’s Restaurant, an elegant establishment across the street from the Metropolitan Opera House. The Met’s staff and stars came in often, so she added a couple of arias to their repertoire of popular songs, certain that in no time she and Rosa would be discovered.

The sisters sang beautifully, receiving countless compliments and tips, but no one from the Met spoke to them. No meetings, no offers, no discovery.

Into Stardom

Carmela’s agent finally came through with a vaudeville contract for both sisters. Billing themselves as famous sopranos from Italy, they toured the nation, singing everything from “Swanee River” to the Barcarolle duet from “Tales of Hoffmann.”

The sisters were an immediate hit with audiences, and with theater managers who felt they added class to bills featuring jugglers and dog acts. They got sterling reviews, and their status and income rose on the vaudeville circuit. They were able at last to pay off their parents’ debts.

By 1917, Carmela and Rosa were earning $1,000 a week, appearing at the best venues—even at the crown jewel of vaudeville, the Palace Theater in Times Square. But Carmela still had her eyes set on opera. She began studying with an eminent voice teacher, William Thorner, and talked him into taking on Rosa as well.

Thorner often invited friends to hear his pupils sing. One day, the friend turned out to be the most famous singer in the world: Enrico Caruso. The great tenor looked at Rosa and said, “Do you know that you look just like me?” He spoke to her in Neapolitan dialect and she answered right back. Their families came from the same little region! He asked her to sing. Rosa was terrified because, as she later said, “I never had any voice training, and my sister very little.”

Caruso liked what he heard. He announced to Giulio Gatti-Casazza, the director of the Met, that he’d found the perfect replacement for his leading lady, who had become unavailable.

“What experience has she had?” Gatti-Casazza asked.

Caruso hesitated. “Well, she’s sung in vaudeville with her sister.”

(Library of Congress)

Gatti-Casazza couldn’t believe his ears, but he agreed to an audition. He gave Rosa a week to learn two difficult arias. She had never heard of them or the operas they were from. She had only seen two operas in her life. The audition began well, but in the middle of “Casta diva” from “Norma,” she fainted and collapsed. Carmela revived her and Gatti-Casazza asked to see her in his office.

Rosa was sure he was going to throw her out for wasting his time. Instead, he pushed a paper across his desk. “Sign this.” Rosa didn’t understand. Gatti-Casazza elaborated: “Your contract to make your debut with Caruso in ‘La forza del destino.’ Do you think you could be ready by November?”

The Force of Destiny

The night of the premiere, Caruso and Rosa Ponzillo—renamed Ponselle—made magic. The reviews were stellar, and Rosa went on to become the country’s best-loved prima donna. The press dubbed her “Our American Rose.”

Carmela would later sing supporting roles at the Met, but she never resented her sister’s success, which she had done so much to make possible.

Retiring from the stage in the late 1930s, Rosa coached young singers and served as the artistic director of the Baltimore Civic Opera for 30 years. She died in 1981, but her recordings remain the gold standard in her repertoire, studied by young singers everywhere.

Maria Callas is often cited as the best soprano of the 20th century, but she herself said: “Ponselle was the greatest singer of us all.”

This article was originally published in American Essence magazine.