These records in Romophone's Vol. 1 bring back the memory of a mortifying discovery I made at the impressionable age of 11 or 12: that Ponselle had been photographed with Shirley Temple. What was worse, the child film star had exclaimed ''Gee, this lady sure can sing!'', which was after hearing not ''Casta diva'', but Carry me back to Old Virginny. It seemed to me (for 12-year-olds are very severe) to be conduct unbecoming, and I tried to put it to the back of my mind.
Here it springs out again, and with it the thought that Ponselle was, after all, herself born into the era of film stars. ''She played Carmen as Joan Crawford would have played her,'' a veteran American critic said to me, admiringly. The insert-note here contains a Crawford-like photograph, and another of a heavily lipsticked Vestale among some MGM-style lilies. But why should such thoughts as these arise as a vexation after listening for two hours to these discs, on which some of the most glorious of recorded singing can be heard? It is the price or the penalty, I'm afraid, of complete editions. Romophone, since their inception two years ago, have been very scholarly in their presentation, compiling 'the works' and omitting nothing. So here we have 'the works' of Rosa Ponselle on the Victor label from 1923 to 1925, ending with a sequence of ten recordings which leave not so much the taste of cheapness as a feeling of waste and cultural impoverishment, of a degree that, in view of the gifts involved, is almost tragic.
A certain frustration also attends some of the more worthy recordings. The first tracks, of solos from Aida and Ernani, deny the hoped-for fulfilment by taking an apprehensively hurried tempo. Better are the Otello excerpts, and the ''Pace, pace, mio Dio'' gives the first proper taste of Ponselle at her best. The Aida duets with Martinelli (pre-electrical versions, Nile as well as Tomb scene) are precious indeed, virtually every phrase imprinting itself on the memory. In some of the songs that follow, there are moments (the soft E natural closing Scott's Lullaby, the almost regal climax of Tosti's Goodbye, the unflawed 'coda' of his Serenade) where the marvel comes briefly but gloriously into view. Supreme, I thought, is the unpublished take of ''Suicidio'' (La Gioconda): essentially the same performance as the familiar one, but caught with a more thrilling vividness.
There are eight tracks never published on 78s or, as far as I know, previously on CD, none of them of new material or of significantly differing performances, yet impressive as demonstrating Ponselle's consistency: the rejected versions show up no hidden weaknesses, but on the contrary, manifest an efficiency that might seem almost machine-like if it were not associated with such a very warm and personal art. The transfers are faithful, not all of the originals being very satisfying as recordings. Some of them, including several of the published takes, are nevertheless as successful as many I have heard in revealing this often strangely elusive glory.
The second volume is devoted to Ponselle's best-known recordings, the electrical Victors of the late 1920s. She was at the height of her powers, and that height was so great that the records have been widely considered as doing them scant justice. This opinion originates with admirers such as the late Ida Cook, who recalled that once she and her sister had heard Ponselle in the opera house they put the records away as being quite inadequate. But one obvious rejoinder is that people of that generation were dependent on what would nowadays be considered primitive equipment, and that, hearing such transfers as these of Ward Marston's, they have been more favourably impressed. I imagine that there is truth in both propositions.
These early electricals seemed to stack up everything against them: the acoustic was dry and boxy, the orchestra frequently sounded more like a piano-accordion, in original form they were often on noisy shellac, and they played at the wrong speed. What can be corrected has been: those who know the Trovatore ''Miserere'' on HMV DB1199, for instance, will find the parody of Ponselle's voice which has dominated its memory to be wildly unjust. Yet I'm sure something does remain uncaptured and now only to be guessed at. The records have told much, and now they tell more; but imagination still has to take that voice out of the box-studio and hear it pouring liquid gold as the accounts of those who heard her and who sang with her say that it did.
Apart from the quality of transfer, the strong suit here is the inclusion of unpublished takes. ''O patria mia'', ''Ritorna vincitor'', ''O nume tutelar'', ''Ernani, involami'', ''Pace, pace, mio Dio'' and the Forza trio can all be heard here in versions never issued in their own time. An arrangement of Schubert's Standchen for duet, recorded in 1926 with the sister, Carmela, is an item unpublished in any other form: a bizarre performance, and still stranger in provenance for ''on the original tape recording of Take 1 part of the last section of the song was accidentally erased, and Take 2 contained a severe crack which extended halfway into the original test pressing'' (producer's note). There are also two items (Massenet's Elegie and the ''Miserere'') which were issued on the same catalogue number, and those have also been included. Mostly, the difference between performances is so slight that profit is limited largely to admiration for the consistency. The only actual mistake I have noticed is in the trio, where, after a broad tutti, Pinza enters late with his ''lode a te, Signor'' in the Forza trio, correcting it in the retake. Both performances are newly thrilling: Martinelli lighting up every phrase, and Pinza's voice matching Ponselle's in the glory of their summer.'