Belasco’s association with Mrs. Leslie Carter began in 1889 and continued till 1906. In some ways it proved advantageous, but considerably more so to her than to him. The maiden name of that singularly eccentric woman,—a compound of many opposed qualities, sense and folly, sensibility and hardness, intelligence and dulness, an affectionate disposition and an imperious temper,—was Caroline Louise Dudley. She is, I understood from herself, of Scotch descent. She was born in Louisville, Kentucky, June 10, 186(4?). In youth she was deemed remarkable for something bizarre and alluring in her appearance, one special feature of which was her copious, resplendent hair, of the color that is called Titian red. When very young she became the wife (May 26, 1880) of Mr. Leslie Carter, of Chicago. The marriage proved unhappy, and in 1889 her husband obtained a divorce from her in that city. Comment on this case of domestic infelicity is not essential here. Mr. Carter was legally adjudged to be in the right and Mrs. Carter to be in the wrong. Society, knowing them both, sided with him and was bitterly condemnatory of her. She had few friends and very slight pecuniary resources. She was confronted with the necessity of earning a living, and she determined to adopt the vocation of the Stage. She had participated in private theatricals, as so many other young women in kindred circumstances have done before emerging in the Theatre, but she possessed no training for it. She had heard of Belasco’s repute as an histrionic instructor, and proceeding with better (or perhaps only more fortunate) judgment than she had ever before or has ever since displayed, she sought an introduction to him for the purpose of obtaining his assistance as a teacher. That introduction she procured through Edward G. Gillmore (18—-1905), then manager of the New York Academy of Music, and to Belasco she made known her position and her aspirations. How crude those aspirations were, and how indefinite her plans as to a stage career, can be conjectured from her response to the first inquiry he made,—whether she wished to act in tragedy or comedy. “I am a horsewoman,” she replied, “and I wish to make my first entrance on a horse, leaping over a hurdle.” No practical result attended that interview. Belasco, of course, observed the peculiarities of the impracticable novice and, perhaps, some glimmering indication of a talent in her which might be developed; but he was at that time preoccupied in collaboration with De Mille on “The Charity Ball,” and Mrs. Carter’s application was put aside and, by him, forgotten. She returned to Chicago, but she did not falter in her purpose. A little later, learning that Belasco had again secluded himself at Echo Lake (where, indeed, with De Mille, he had sought a secluded refuge in which to finish “The Charity Ball”), she again presented herself before him and besought him to become her teacher and to embark her on a dramatic career.

“Mrs. Carter came to me,” he said, “while De Mille and I were at work on ’The Charity Ball.’ I was almost worn out the afternoon she arrived—not having had any sleep to speak of in two days—and she was almost hysterical and frantic with fatigue, trouble, and anxiety. She told me much of the story of her domestic tragedy,—and a heart-breaking story it is,—and, as she told it and I listened, I began to see the possibilities in her,—if only she could act, on the stage, with the same force and pathos she used in telling her story. I think a real manager and dramatist is, in a way, like a physician: a physician gets so that he never looks at a human face without noting whether it shows signs of disease or not: I never look at a face or listen to a voice without noting whether they show signs of fitness for the stage. Mrs. Carter showed it, in every word she spoke, in every move she made: if only she could act like that on the stage, I caught myself thinking. The upshot of the matter was that I promised to give her a trial, to see whether she could act as well as she could talk, and that, if she stood the test, I’d help her if I could. After I returned to New York I rehearsed her in several parts I had given her; I became convinced that she had the makings of a great actress in her, and I determined that, as soon as I could, I would take up her training and, if she proved as talented as I thought her, would try to strike out for myself and establish her as a star.”