least expenditure of
physical strength, Mme. Carreno continued:

"The secret of power lies in relaxation; or I might say, power _is_
relaxation. This word, however, is apt to be misunderstood. You tell
pupils to relax, and if they do not understand how and when they get
nowhere. Relaxation does not mean to flop all over the piano; it means,
rather, to loosen just where it is needed and nowhere else. For the
heavy chords in the Tschaikowsky Concerto my arms are absolutely limp
from the shoulder; in fact, I am not conscious I have arms. That is why
I can play for hours without the slightest fatigue. It is really mental
relaxation, for one has to think it; it must be in the mind first before
it can be worked out in arms and hands. We have to think it and then act
it.

"This quality of my playing must have impressed Breithaupt, for, as you
perhaps know, it was after he heard me play that he wrote his famous
book on 'Weight Touch,' which is dedicated to me. A second and revised
edition of this work, by the way, is an improvement on the first. Many
artists and musicians have told me I have a special quality of tone; if
this is true I am convinced this quality is the result of controlled
relaxation."

I referred to the artist's hand as being of exceptional adaptability for
the piano.

"Yes," she answered, "and it resembles closely the hand of Rubinstein.
This brings to mind a little incident. As a small child, I was taken to
London, and on one occasion played in the presence of Rubinstein; he was
delighted, took me under his wing, and introduced me all about as his
musical daughter. Years afterward we came to New York, and located at
the old Clarendon Hotel, which has housed so many men of note. The first
day at lunch, my aunt and I were seated at a table mostly occupied by
elderly ladies, who stared at us curiously. I was a shy slip of a girl,
and hardly ventured to raise my eyes after the first look around the
room. Beside me sat a gentleman. I glanced at his hand as it rested on
the table--then I looked more closely; how much it reminded me of
Rubinstein's hand! My eyes traveled slowly up to the gentleman's
face--it was Rubinstein! He was looking at me; then he turned and
embraced me, before all those observing ladles!"

We spoke of Berlin, the home of the pianist, and of its musical life,
mentioning von Buelow and Klindworth. "Both good friends of mine," she
commented. "What a wonderful work Klindworth has accomplish