Word: paled
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Dates: during 1930-1939
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Because Frederic François Chopin was ethereally pale and consumptive, because his music has always had a romantic appeal for ladies, the tendency has been for many a layman to regard him as a little man of music, a sentimentalist whose place is in the parlor. Chopin acquires great stature when played by great musicians. An unreserved admirer is British Pianist William Murdoch who this week tells Chopin's story in a good detailed biography.* Many a writer has made Chopin seem doomed from boyhood. According to Pianist Murdoch, his early days were easy compared to those...
Seven years ago a sleek, pale-faced young Russian Jew rushed up the back steps of Manhattan's Carnegie Hall, tore off his coat and hat, took a photograph of Liszt from his pocket, glanced at it prayerfully, then fairly galloped out on the stage for his U. S. debut. For critics it was a double-barreled evening because Sir Thomas Beecham, famed son of a famed pillman, was also making his U. S. debut. Sir Thomas was as athletic a conductor as New Yorkers had ever seen. But young Vladimir Horowitz, with all his stage fright...
Greensickness is defined as "an anaemic disease which mostly affects young women about the age of puberty and gives a pale or greenish tinge to the complexion." Present-day letters, which some doctors have diagnosed as convalescing from a long siege of bilious morbidity, is breaking out in occasional patches that seem reminiscent of the same sort of adolescent sickliness. Author Douglas' high-minded story has a strong, sweet flavor about it that will attract followers of the late Gene Stratton Porter, members of the Oxford Group et al., but its color is definitely green...
Warm winds whispered through the pale night, and moonbeams shimmered mockingly over the ancient stones of the nunnery. Inside slept Chastity like a drift of snow in a cave in summer. Behind the grilled window of a tower chamber in candle burned. A young friar saw it and smiled as he walked up and down in the walled-in garden of the nunnery. The wan night air, fragrant with the scent of flowers, caressed him. Old repressions and half-forgotten dusty dont's quickened his pleasure in the escapade. If one could only catch this fragile essence and then only...
...candle in the tower winked out. All was stillness. The friar turned toward the building and stood motionless. Presently a latch clicked, and a woman hurried across the moonlit award and slipped into his arms. They kissed, and then stood for a long time whispering. At intervals, in the pale light, their faces fused. His the eager artist's, burning with creation; her's with a strange detachment--one day to be immortalized in pigment. At last they moved apart and then stole quickly down the garden path to a door in the old wall. The man opened...