-1-Unit3Theworldofcoloursandlight【导读】你喜欢画画吗?你了解会画画的人吗?阅读短篇小说《画册的一页》,让你认识会画画的伊恩·费伦奇。【节选】Feuilled'albumHereallywasanimpossibleperson.Tooshy,andhehadnothingatalltosay.Whenhecametoyourstudio,hejustsatthere,silent.Whenhefinallywent,blushingredalloverhisface,youwantedtoscreamandthrowsomethingathim.Thestrangethingwasthatatfirstsighthelookedmostinteresting.Everybodyagreedaboutthat.Yousawhiminacaféoneevening,sittinginacornerwithaglassofcoffeeinfrontofhim.Hewasathinboy,whoalwaysworeablueshirtandagreyjacketthatwasalittletoosmallforhim.Helookedjustlikeaboywhohasdecidedtorunawaytosea.Youexpectedhimtogetupatanymoment,andwalkoutintothenightandbedrowned.Hehadshortblackhair,greyeyes,whiteskinandamouththatalwayslookedreadyfortears.Oh,justtoseehimdidsomethingtoyourheart!Andhehadthishabitofblushing.Ifawaiterspoketohim,heturnedred!‘Whoishe,mydear?Doyouknow?’‘Yes.HisnameisIanFrench.Hepaints.Theysayhe'sveryclever.SomeoneIknowtriedtomotherhim.Sheaskedhimhowoftenhehadaletterfromhome,ifhehadenoughblanketsonhisbed,howmuchmilkhedrank.Thenshewenttohisstudiotomakesurehehadenoughcleanshirts.Sherangandrangthebell,butnobodycametothedoor,althoughshewassurehewasthere...Hopeless!’Someoneelsedecidedheoughttofallinlove.Shecalledhimtoher,tookhishand,andtoldhimhowwonderfullifecanbeforthosewhoarebrave.Butwhenshewenttohisstudiooneevening,sherangandrang...Hopeless.‘Whatthepoorboyreallyneedsisexcitement,’athirdwomansaid.Shetookhimtocafésandnightclubs,darkplaceswherethedrinkscosttoomuchandtherewerealwaysstoriesofashootingthenightbefore.Oncehegotverydrunk,butstillhesaidnothing,andwhenshetookhimhometohisstudio,hejustsaid‘goodnight’andleftheroutsideinthestreet...Hopeless.-2-Otherwomentriedtohelphim—womencanbeverykind—butfinallythey,too,weredefeated.Weareallbusypeople,andwhyshouldwespendourvaluabletimeonsomeonewhorefusestobehelped?‘Andanyway,Ithinkthereissomethingratheroddabouthim,don'tyouagree?Hecan'tbeasinnocentashelooks.WhycometoParisifyoudon'tintendtohaveanyfun?’Helivedatthetopofatall,uglybuilding,neartheriver.Asitwassohigh,thestudiohadawonderfulview.Fromthetwobigwindowshecouldseeboatsontheriverandanislandcoveredwithtrees.Fromthesidewindowhelookedacrosstoasmalleranduglierhouse,anddownbelowtherewasaflowermarket.Youcouldseethetopsofhugeumbrellaswithbrightflowersaroundthem,andplantsinboxes.Oldwomenmovedbackwardsandforwardsamongtheflowers.Really,hedidn'tneedtogoout.Therewasalwayssomethingtodraw.Ifanykindwomanhadbeenabletogetintohisstudio,shewouldhavehadasurprise.Hekeptitasneatasapin.Everythingwasarrangedinitsplace,exactlylikeapainting—thebowlofeggs,thecupsandtheteapotontheshelf,thebooksandthelamponthetable.TherewasaredIndiancoveronhisbed,andonthewallbythebedtherewasasmall,neatlywrittennotice:GETUPATONCE.Everydaywasthesame.Whenthelightwasgoodhepainted,thencookedamealandtidiedthestudio.Intheeveningshewenttothecaféorsatathomereadingorwritingalistwhichbegan:‘WhatIcanaffordtospend’.Thelistended‘Ipromisenottospendmorethismonth.Signed,IanFrench’.Nothingoddaboutthat;butthewomenwereright.Therewassomethingelse.Oneeveninghewassittingatthesidewindoweatinganappleandlookingdownontothetopsofthehugeumbrellasintheemptyflowermarket.Ithadbeenraining,thefirstspringrainoftheyear,andtheairsmelledofplantsandwetearth.Downbelowinthemarket,thetreeswerecoveredinnewgreen.‘Whatkindoftreesarethey?’hewondered.Hestareddownatthesmalluglyhouse,andsuddenlytwowindowsopenedlikewingsandagirlcameoutontothebalcony,carryingapotofdaffodils.Shewasastrangelythingirlinadarkdress,withapinkhandkerchieftiedoverherhair.‘Yes,itiswarmenough.Itwilldothemgood,’shesaid,puttingdownthepot,andturningtosomeoneintheroominside.Assheturned,sheputherhandsuptoherhairtotidyit,andlookeddownatthemarketandupatthesky.Shedidnotlook-3-atthehouseopposite.Thenshedisappeared.Hisheartfelloutofthewindowanddowntothebalcony,whereitburieditselfamongthegreenleavesofthedaffodils.Theroomwiththebalconywasthesittingroom,andnexttoitwasthekitchen.Heheardherwashingthedishesaftersupper,sawhercometothewindowtoshakeoutthetablecloth.Sheneversangorcombedherhairorstaredatthemoonasyounggirlsaresaidtodo.Shealwaysworethesamedarkdressandpinkhandkerchief.Whodidshelivewith?Nobodyelsecametothewindow,butshewasalwaystalkingtosomeone.Hermother,hedecided,wasalwaysill.Theytookinsewingwork.Thefatherwasdead...Hehadbeenajournalist.Byworkingalldaysheandhermotherjustmadeenoughmoneytoliveon,buttheyneverwentoutandtheyhadnofriends.Hehadtomakesomenewnotices...‘Nottogotothewindowbeforesixo'clock:signed,IanFrench.Nottothinkaboutheruntilhehadfinishedhispaintingfortheday:signed,IanFrench.’Itwasquitesimple.Shewastheonlypersonhewantedtoknowbecauseshewas,hedecided,theonlypersonalivewhowasexactlyhisage.Hedidn'twantsillygirls,andhehadnouseforolderwomen.Shewashisage.Shewas—well,justlikehim.Hesatinhisstudio,staringatherwindows,seeinghimselfinthoseroomswithher.Shewasoftenangry.Theyhadterriblefights,heandshe.Andsherarelylaughed.Onlysometimes,whenshetoldhimaboutafunnylittlecatsheoncehad,whousedtoscratchandpretendtobefiercewhenshegaveitmeattoeat...Thingslikethatmadeherlaugh.Usua