Rip Van Winkle
A Posthumous Writing of Diedrich Knickerbocker
By Washington Irving
(THE FOLLOWING tale was found among the papers of the late Diedrich Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of New York, who was very curious in the Dutch history of the province, and the manners of the descendants from its primitive settlers. His historical researches, however, did not lie so much among books as among men; for the former are lamentably scanty on his favorite topics; whereas he found the old burghers, and still more their wives, rich in that legendary lore so invaluable to true history. Whenever, therefore, he happened upon a genuine Dutch family, snugly shut up in its low-roofed farmhouse, under a spreading sycamore, he looked upon it as a little clasped volume of black-letter, and studied it with the zeal of a bookworm.
The result of all these researches was a history of the province during the reign of the Dutch governors, which he published some years since. There have been various opinions as to the literary character of his work, and, to tell the truth, it is not a whit better than it should be. Its chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy, which indeed was a little questioned on its first appearance, but has since been completely established; and it is how admitted into all historical collections as a book of unquestionable authority.
The old gentleman died shortly after the publication of his work, and now that he is dead and gone it cannot do much harm to his memory to say that his time might have been much better employed in weightier labors. He, however, was apt to ride his hobby in his own way; and though it did now and then kick up the dust a little in the eyes of his neighbors and grieve the spirit of some friends, for whom he felt the truest deference and affection, yet his errors and follies are remembered “more in sorrow than in anger”; and it begins to be suspected that he never intended to injure or offend. But however his memory may be appreciated by critics, it is still held dear among many folk whose good opinion is well worth having; particularly by certain biscuit bakers, who have gone so far as
to imprint his likeness on their New Year cakes, and have thus given him a chance for immortality almost equal to the being stamped on a Waterloo medal or a Queen Anne’s farthing.)
By Woden, God of Saxons,
From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday, Truth is a thing that ever I will keep Unto thylke day in which I creep into My sepulchre—
CARTWRIGHT.
Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the Catskill Mountains. They are a dismembered branch of the great Appalachian family, and are seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to a noble height, and lording it over the surrounding country. Every change of season, every change of weather, indeed, every hour of the day, produces some change in the magical hues and shapes of these mountains, and they are regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. When the weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in blue and purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear evening sky; but sometimes, when the rest of the landscape is cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapors about their summits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a crown of glory.
At the foot of these fairy mountains the voyager may have descried the light smoke curling up from a village whose shingle roofs gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints of the upland melt away into the fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a little village of great antiquity, having been founded by some of the Dutch colonists, in the early times of the province, just about the beginning of the government of the good Peter Stuyvesant (may he rest in peace!), and there were some of the houses of the original settlers standing within a few years, with lattice windows, gable fronts surmounted with weathercocks, and built of small yellow bricks brought from Holland.
In that same village, and in one of these very houses (which, to tell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn and weather-beaten), there lived many years since, while the country was yet a province of Great Britain, a simple, good-natured fellow, of the name of Rip Van Winkle. He was a descendant of the Van Winkles who figured so gallantly in the chivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the siege of Fort Christina. He inherited, however, but little of the martial character of his ancestors. I have observed that he was a simple, good-natured man; he was, moreover, a kind neighbor and an obedient, henpecked husband. Indeed, to the latter circumstance might be owing that meekness of spirit which gained him such universal popularity; for those men are most apt
to be obsequious and conciliating abroad who are under the discipline of shrews at home. Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered pliant and malleable in the fiery furnace of domestic tribulation, and a curtain lecture is worth all the sermons in the world for teaching the virtues of patience and long-suffering. A termagant wife may, therefore, in some respects, be considered a tolerable blessing; and if so, Rip Van Winkle was thrice blessed.
Certain it is that he was a great favorite among all the good wives of the village, who, as usual with the amiable sex, took his part in all family squabbles, and never failed, whenever they talked those matters over in their evening gossipings, to lay all the blame on Dame Van Winkle. The children of the village, too, would shout with joy whenever he approached. He assisted at their sports, made their playthings, taught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts, witches, and Indians. Whenever he went dodging about the village, he was surrounded by a troop of them, hanging on his skirts, clambering on his back, and playing a thousand tricks on him with impunity; and not a dog would bark at him throughout the neighborhood.
The great error in Rip’s composition was an insuperable aversion to all kinds of profitable labor. It could not be from the want of assiduity or perseverance; for he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and heavy as a Tartar’s lance, and fish all day without a murmur, even though he should not be encouraged by a single nibble. He would carry a fowling piece on his shoulder, for hours together, trudging through woods and swamps, and up hill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons. He would never even refuse to assist a neighbor in the roughest toil, and was a foremost man at all country frolics for husking Indian corn, or building stone fences. The women of the village, too, used to employ him to run their errands, and to do such little odd jobs as their less obliging husbands would not do for them; in a word, Rip was ready to attend to anybody’s business but his own; but as to doing family duty, and keeping his farm in order, it was impossible.
In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his farm; it was the most pestilent little piece of ground in the whole country; everything about it went wrong, and would go wrong, in spite of him. His fences were continually falling to pieces; his cow would either go astray or get among the cabbages; weeds were sure to grow quicker in his fields than anywhere else; the rain always made a point of setting in just as he had some outdoor work to do; so that though his patrimonial estate had dwindled away under his management, acre by acre, until there was little more left than a mere patch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the worst-conditioned farm in the neighborhood.
His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten in his own likeness, promised to
inherit the habits, with the old clothes of his father. He was generally seen trooping like a colt at his mother’s heels, equipped in a pair of his father’s cast-off galligaskins, which he had much ado to hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does her train in bad weather.
Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy, eat white bread or brown, whichever can be got with least thought or trouble, and would rather starve on a penny than work for a pound. If left to himself, he would have whistled life away, in perfect contentment; but his wife kept continually dinning in his ears about his idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he was bringing on his family. Morning, noon, and night, her tongue was incessantly going, and everything he said or did was sure to produce a torrent of household eloquence. Rip had but one way of replying to all lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent use, had grown into a habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, cast up his eyes, but said nothing. This, however, always provoked a fresh volley from his wife, so that he was fain to draw off his forces, and take to the outside of the house—the only side which, in truth, belongs to a henpecked husband. Rip’s sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as much henpecked as his master; for Dame Van Winkle regarded them as companions in idleness, and even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the cause of his master’s so often going astray. True it is, in all points of spirit befitting an honorable dog, he was as courageous an animal as ever scoured the woods—but what courage can withstand the ever-during and all-besetting terrors of a woman’s tongue? The moment Wolf entered the house his crest fell, his tail drooped to the ground, or curled between his legs; he sneaked about with a gallows air, casting many a sidelong glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at the least flourish of a broomstick or ladle would fly to the door with yelping precipitation.
Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as years of matrimony rolled on; a tart temper never mellows with age, and a sharp tongue is the only edged tool that grows keener by constant use. For a long while he used to console himself, when driven from home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the sages, philosophers, and other idle personages of the village, which held its sessions on a bench before a small inn, designated by a rubicund portrait of his majesty George the Third. Here they used to sit in the shade, of a long lazy summer’s day, talking listlessly over village gossip, or telling endless sleepy stories about nothing. But it would have been worth any statesman’s money to have heard the profound discussions which sometimes took place, when by chance an old newspaper fell into their hands, from some passing traveler. How solemnly they would listen to the contents, as drawled out by Derrick Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, a dapper, learned little man, who was not to be daunted by the most gigantic word in the dictionary; and how sagely
they would deliberate upon public events some months after they had taken place.
The opinions of this junto were completely controlled by Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and landlord of the inn, at the door of which he took his seat from morning till night, just moving sufficiently to avoid the sun, and keep in the shade of a large tree; so that the neighbors could tell the hour by his movements as accurately as by a sun-dial. It is true, he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his pipe incessantly. His adherents, however (for every great man has his adherents), perfectly understood him, and knew how to gather his opinions. When anything that was read or related displeased him, he was observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and send forth short, frequent, and angry puffs; but when pleased, he would inhale the smoke slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in light and placid clouds, and sometimes taking the pipe from his mouth, and letting the fragrant vapor curl about his nose, would gravely nod his head in token of perfect approbation.
From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at length routed by his termagant wife, who would suddenly break in upon the tranquillity of the assemblage, and call the members all to nought; nor was that august personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from the daring tongue of this terrible virago, who charged him outright with encouraging her husband in habits of idleness.
Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; and his only alternative, to escape from the labor of the farm and clamor of his wife, was to take gun in hand and stroll away into the woods. Here he would sometimes seat himself at the foot of a tree, and share the contents of his wallet with Wolf, with whom he sympathized as a fellow-sufferer in persecution. “Poor Wolf,” he would say, “thy mistress leads thee a dog’s life of it; but never mind, my lad, while I live thou shalt never want a friend to stand by thee!” Wolf would wag his tail, look wistfully in his master’s face, and if dogs can feel pity, I verily believe he reciprocated the sentiment with all his heart.
In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, Rip had unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the Catskill Mountains. He was after his favorite sport of squirrel shooting, and the still solitudes had echoed and reëchoed with the reports of his gun. Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, late in the afternoon, on a green knoll, covered with mountain herbage, that crowned the brow of a precipice. From an opening between the trees he could overlook all the lower country for many a mile of rich woodland. He saw at a distance the lordly Hudson, far, far below him, moving on its silent but majestic course, the reflection of a purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging bark, here and there sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at last losing itself in the blue highlands.
On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled with fragments from the impending cliffs, and scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of the setting sun. For some time Rip lay musing on this scene; evening was gradually advancing; the mountains began to throw their long blue shadows over the valleys; he saw that it would be dark long before he could reach the village, and he heaved a heavy sigh when he thought of encountering the terrors of Dame Van Winkle.
As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a distance, hallooing, “Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!” He looked around, but could see nothing but a crow winging its solitary flight across the mountain. He thought his fancy must have deceived him, and turned again to descend, when he heard the same cry ring through the still evening air: “Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!”—at the same time Wolf bristled up his back, and giving a low growl, skulked to his master’s side, looking fearfully down into the glen. Rip now felt a vague apprehension stealing over him; he looked anxiously in the same direction, and perceived a strange figure slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending under the weight of something he carried on his back. He was surprised to see any human being in this lonely and unfrequented place, but supposing it to be some one of the neighborhood in need of assistance, he hastened down to yield it.
On nearer approach, he was still more surprised at the singularity of the stranger’s appearance. He was a short, square-built old fellow, with thick bushy hair, and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the antique Dutch fashion—a cloth jerkin strapped around the waist—several pair of breeches, the outer one of ample volume, decorated with rows of buttons down the sides, and bunches at the knees. He bore on his shoulders a stout keg, that seemed full of liquor, and made signs for Rip to approach and assist him with the load. Though rather shy and distrustful of this new acquaintance, Rip complied with his usual alacrity, and mutually relieving one another, they clambered up a narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain torrent. As they ascended, Rip every now and then heard long rolling peals, like distant thunder, that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather cleft between lofty rocks, toward which their rugged path conducted. He paused for an instant, but supposing it to be the muttering of one of those transient thunder showers which often take place in mountain heights, he proceeded. Passing through the ravine, they came to a hollow, like a small amphitheater, surrounded by perpendicular precipices, over the brinks of which impending trees shot their branches, so that you only caught glimpses of the azure sky and the bright evening cloud. During the whole time, Rip and his companion had labored on in silence; for though the former marveled greatly what could be the object of carrying a keg of liquor up this wild mountain, yet there was something strange and incomprehensible about the unknown that inspired awe and
checked familiarity.
On entering the amphitheater, new objects of wonder presented themselves. On a level spot in the center was a company of odd-looking personages playing at ninepins. They were dressed in a quaint, outlandish fashion: some wore short doublets, others jerkins, with long knives in their belts, and most had enormous breeches, of similar style with that of the guide’s. Their visages, too, were peculiar: one had a large head, broad face, and small, piggish eyes; the face of another seemed to consist entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a white sugar-loaf hat set off with a little red cock’s tail. They all had beards, of various shapes and colors. There was one who seemed to be the commander. He was a stout old gentleman, with a weather-beaten countenance; he wore a laced doublet, broad belt and hanger, high-crowned hat and feather, red stockings, and high-heeled shoes, with roses in them. The whole group reminded Rip of the figures in an old Flemish painting, in the parlor of Dominie Van Schaick, the village parson, and which had been brought over from Holland at the time of the settlement.
What seemed particularly odd to Rip, was that though these folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained the gravest faces, the most mysterious silence, and were, withal, the most melancholy party of pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted the stillness of the scene but the noise of the balls, which, whenever they were rolled, echoed along the mountains like rumbling peals of thunder.
As Rip and his companion approached them, they suddenly desisted from their play, and stared at him with such fixed statue-like gaze, and such strange, uncouth, lack-luster countenances, that his heart turned within him, and his knees smote together. His companion now emptied the contents of the keg into large flagons, and made signs to him to wait upon the company. He obeyed with fear and trembling; they quaffed the liquor in profound silence, and then returned to their game. By degrees, Rip’s awe and apprehension subsided. He even ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the beverage, which he found had much of the flavor of excellent Hollands. He was naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to repeat the draught. One taste provoked another, and he reiterated his visits to the flagon so often, that at length his senses were overpowered, his eyes swam in his head, his head gradually declined, and he fell into a deep sleep.
On awaking, he found himself on the green knoll from whence he had first seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes—it was a bright sunny morning. The birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes, and the eagle was wheeling aloft and breasting the pure mountain breeze. “Surely,” thought Rip, “I have not slept here all night.” He recalled the occurrences before he fell asleep. The strange man with a keg of liquor—the mountain ravine—the wild retreat among the rocks—the
woe-begone party at ninepins—the flagon—“Oh! that flagon! that wicked flagon!” thought Rip—“what excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle?” He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean, well-oiled fowling piece, he found an old firelock lying by him, the barrel incrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock worm-eaten. He now suspected that the grave roysters of the mountain had put a trick upon him, and having dosed him with liquor, had robbed him of his gun. Wolf, too, had disappeared, but he might have strayed away after a squirrel or partridge. He whistled after him, shouted his name, but all in vain; the echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog was to be seen.
He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening’s gambol, and if he met with any of the party, to demand his dog and gun. As he rose to walk, he found himself stiff in the joints, and wanting in his usual activity. “These mountain beds do not agree with me,” thought Rip, “and if this frolic should lay me up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall have a blessed time with Dame Van Winkle.” With some difficulty he got down into the glen; he found the gully up which he and his companion had ascended the preceding evening; but to his astonishment a mountain stream was now foaming down it, leaping from rock to rock, and filling the glen with babbling murmurs. He, however, made shift to scramble up its sides, working his toilsome way through thickets of birch, sassafras, and witch-hazel, and sometimes tripped up or entangled by the wild grape vines that twisted their coils and tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a kind of network in his path.
At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through the cliffs to the amphitheater; but no traces of such opening remained. The rocks presented a high, impenetrable wall, over which the torrent came tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a broad, deep basin, black from the shadows of the surrounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip was brought to a stand. He again called and whistled after his dog; he was only answered by the cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting high in air about a dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice; and who, secure in their elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at the poor man’s perplexities. What was to be done? the morning was passing away, and Rip felt famished for want of his breakfast. He grieved to give up his dog and gun; he dreaded to meet his wife; but it would not do to starve among the mountains. He shook his head, shouldered the rusty firelock, and, with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, turned his steps homeward.
As he approached the village, he met a number of people, but none whom he knew, which somewhat surprised him, for he had thought himself acquainted with every one in the country round. Their dress, too, was of a different fashion from that to which he was accustomed. They all stared at him with equal marks of surprise, and whenever they cast their eyes upon him, invariably stroked their chins. The constant recurrence of this
gesture induced Rip, involuntarily, to do the same, when, to his astonishment, he found his beard had grown a foot long!
He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of strange children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and pointing at his gray beard. The dogs, too, none of which he recognized for his old acquaintances, barked at him as he passed. The very village was altered: it was larger and more populous. There were rows of houses which he had never seen before, and those which had been his familiar haunts had disappeared. Strange names were over the doors—strange faces at the windows—everything was strange. His mind now began to misgive him; he doubted whether both he and the world around him were not bewitched. Surely this was his native village, which he had left but the day before. There stood the Catskill Mountains—there ran the silver Hudson at a distance—there was every hill and dale precisely as it had always been—Rip was sorely perplexed—“That flagon last night,” thought he, “has addled my poor head sadly!”
It was with some difficulty he found the way to his own house, which he approached with silent awe, expecting every moment to hear the shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He found the house gone to decay—the roof fallen in, the windows shattered, and the doors off the hinges. A half-starved dog, that looked like Wolf, was skulking about it. Rip called him by name, but the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on. This was an unkind cut indeed—“My very dog,” sighed poor Rip, “has forgotten me!”
He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame Van Winkle had always kept in neat order. It was empty, forlorn, and apparently abandoned. This desolateness overcame all his connubial fears—he called loudly for his wife and children—the lonely chambers rung for a moment with his voice, and then all again was silence.
He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the little village inn—but it too was gone. A large rickety wooden building stood in its place, with great gaping windows, some of them broken, and mended with old hats and petticoats, and over the door was painted, “The Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle.” Instead of the great tree which used to shelter the quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared a tall naked pole, with something on the top that looked like a red nightcap, and from it was fluttering a flag, on which was a singular assemblage of stars and stripes—all this was strange and incomprehensible. He recognized on the sign, however, the ruby face of King George, under which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe, but even this was singularly metamorphosed. The red coat was changed for one of blue and buff, a sword was stuck in the hand instead of a scepter, the head was decorated with a cocked hat, and underneath was painted in large characters, GENERAL WASHINGTON.
There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none whom Rip recollected. The very character of the people seemed changed. There
was a busy, bustling, disputatious tone about it, instead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. He looked in vain for the sage Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face, double chin, and fair long pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco smoke instead of idle speeches; or Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, doling forth the contents of an ancient newspaper. In place of these, a lean, bilious-looking fellow, with his pockets full of handbills, was haranguing vehemently about rights of citizens—election—members of Congress—liberty—Bunker’s Hill—heroes of ’76—and other words, that were a perfect Babylonish jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle.
The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled beard, his rusty fowling piece, his uncouth dress, and the army of women and children that had gathered at his heels, soon attracted the attention of the tavern politicians. They crowded around him, eying him from head to foot, with great curiosity. The orator bustled up to him, and drawing him partly aside, inquired “on which side he voted?” Rip stared in vacant stupidity. Another short but busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and raising on tiptoe, inquired in his ear, “whether he was Federal or Democrat.” Rip was equally at a loss to comprehend the question; when a knowing, self-important old gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, made his way through the crowd, putting them to the right and left with his elbows as he passed, and planting himself before Van Winkle, with one arm akimbo, the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into his very soul, demanded, in an austere tone, “what brought him to the election with a gun on his shoulder, and a mob at his heels, and whether he meant to breed a riot in the village?” “Alas! gentlemen,” cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, “I am a poor quiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal subject of the king, God bless him!”
Here a general shout burst from the bystanders—“A Tory! a Tory! a spy! a refugee! hustle him! away with him!” It was with great difficulty that the self-important man in the cocked hat restored order; and having assumed a tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit, what he came there for, and whom he was seeking. The poor man humbly assured him that he meant no harm; but merely came there in search of some of his neighbors, who used to keep about the tavern.
“Well—who are they?—name them.”
Rip bethought himself a moment, and then inquired, “Where’s Nicholas Vedder?”
There was silence for a little while, when an old man replied in a thin, piping voice, “Nicholas Vedder? why, he is dead and gone these eighteen years! There was a wooden tombstone in the churchyard that used to tell all about him, but that’s rotted and gone, too.”
“Where’s Brom Dutcher?”
“Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war; some say
he was killed at the battle of Stony Point—others say he was drowned in a squall, at the foot of Antony’s Nose. I don’t know—he never came back again.”
“Where’s Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?”
“He went off to the wars, too, was a great militia general, and is now in Congress.”
Rip’s heart died away, at hearing of these sad changes in his home and friends, and finding himself thus alone in the world. Every answer puzzled him, too, by treating of such enormous lapses of time, and of matters which he could not understand: war—Congress—Stony Point!—he had no courage to ask after any more friends, but cried out in despair, “Does nobody here know Rip Van Winkle?”
“Oh, Rip Van Winkle!” exclaimed two or three, “Oh, to be sure! that’s Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the tree.”
Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself, as he went up the mountain: apparently as lazy, and certainly as ragged. The poor fellow was now completely confounded. He doubted his own identity, and whether he was himself or another man. In the midst of his bewilderment, the man in the cocked hat demanded who he was, and what was his name?
“God knows,” exclaimed he, at his wit’s end; “I’m not myself—I’m somebody else—that’s me yonder—no—that’s somebody else, got into my shoes—I was myself last night, but I fell asleep on the mountain, and they’ve changed my gun, and everything’s changed, and I’m changed, and I can’t tell what’s my name, or who I am!”
The bystanders began now to look at each other, nod, wink significantly, and tap their fingers against their foreheads. There was a whisper, also, about securing the gun, and keeping the old fellow from doing mischief; at the very suggestion of which, the self-important man in the cocked hat retired with some precipitation. At this critical moment a fresh, likely woman pressed through the throng to get a peep at the gray-bearded man. She had a chubby child in her arms, which, frightened at his looks, began to cry. “Hush, Rip,” cried she, “hush, you little fool, the old man won’t hurt you.” The name of the child, the air of the mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a train of recollections in his mind. “What is your name, my good woman?” asked he.
“Judith Gardenier.”
“And your father’s name?”
“Ah, poor man, his name was Rip Van Winkle; it’s twenty years since he went away from home with his gun, and never has been heard of since—his dog came home without him; but whether he shot himself, or was carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was then but a little girl.” Rip had but one question more to ask; but he put it with a faltering voice:—
“Where’s your mother?”
“Oh, she too had died but a short time since; she broke a blood vessel in a fit of passion at a New England peddler.”
There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelligence. The honest man could contain himself no longer.—He caught his daughter and her child in his arms.—“I am your father!” cried he—“Young Rip Van Winkle once—old Rip Van Winkle now!—Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle!”
All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering under it in his face for a moment, exclaimed, “Sure enough! it is Rip Van Winkle—it is himself. Welcome home again, old neighbor.—Why, where have you been these twenty long years?”
Rip’s story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had been to him but as one night. The neighbors stared when they heard it; some where seen to wink at each other, and put their tongues in their cheeks; and the self-important man in the cocked hat, who, when the alarm was over, had returned to the field, screwed down the corners of his mouth, and shook his head—upon which there was a general shaking of the head throughout the assemblage.
It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the road. He was a descendant of the historian of that name, who wrote one of the earliest accounts of the province. Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the village, and well versed in all the wonderful events and traditions of the neighborhood. He recollected Rip at once, and corroborated his story in the most satisfactory manner. He assured the company that it was a fact, handed down from his ancestor the historian, that the Catskill Mountains had always been haunted by strange beings. That it was affirmed that the great Hendrick Hudson, the first discoverer of the river and country, kept a kind of vigil there every twenty years, with his crew of the Half-Moon, being permitted in this way to revisit the scenes of his enterprise, and keep a guardian eye upon the river, and the great city called by his name. That his father had once seen them in their old Dutch dresses playing at ninepins in a hollow of the mountain; and that he himself had heard, one summer afternoon, the sound of their balls, like long peals of thunder. To make a long story short, the company broke up, and returned to the more important concerns of the election. Rip’s daughter took him home to live with her; she had a snug, well-furnished house, and a stout cheery farmer for a husband, whom Rip recollected for one of the urchins that used to climb upon his back. As to Rip’s son and heir, who was the ditto of himself, seen leaning against the tree, he was employed to work on the farm; but evinced an hereditary disposition to attend to anything else but his business.
Rip now resumed his old walks and habits; he soon found many of his former cronies, though all rather the worse for the wear and tear of time; and preferred making friends among the rising generation, with whom he soon grew into great favor.
Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that happy age when a man can do nothing with impunity, he took his place once more on the bench, at the inn door, and was reverenced as one of the patriarchs of the village, and a chronicle of the old times “before the war.” It was some time before he could get into the regular track of gossip, or could be made to comprehend the strange events that had taken place during his torpor. How that there had been a revolutionary war—that the country had thrown off the yoke of old England—and that, instead of being a subject of his Majesty, George III., he was now a free citizen of the United States. Rip, in fact, was no politician; the changes of states and empires made but little impression on him; but there was one species of despotism under which he had long groaned, and that was—petticoat government; happily, that was at an end; he had got his neck out of the yoke of matrimony, and could go in and out whenever he pleased, without dreading the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. Whenever her name was mentioned, however, he shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and cast up his eyes; which might pass either for an expression of resignation to his fate, or joy at his deliverance.
He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived at Dr. Doolittle’s hotel. He was observed, at first, to vary on some points every time he told it, which was, doubtless, owing to his having so recently awaked. It at last settled down precisely to the tale I have related, and not a man, woman, or child in the neighborhood but knew it by heart. Some always pretended to doubt the reality of it, and insisted that Rip had been out of his head, and this was one point on which he always remained flighty. The old Dutch inhabitants, however, almost universally gave it full credit. Even to this day they never hear a thunder-storm of a summer afternoon, about the Catskills, but they say Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their game of ninepins; and it is a common wish of all henpecked husbands in the neighborhood, when life hangs heavy on their hands, that they might have a quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle’s flagon.
瑞普-凡-温克尔
卡兹吉尔出脉位于纽约州哈得逊河西边，山峰高耸人云，俯瞰着四周的山村。季节更替，阴晴转换，甚至旦夕间的时辰变幻，都会引来山容峰色午姿百态。所以山区周围的村民只要观看卡兹吉尔山脉就能猜出天气的变化。就在这些山脉下
面，航行者可以看见缕缕青烟从一个古老的荷兰小山村袅袅升起。瑞普-凡-温克尔就在这个村里。许多年前，他就住在这里，那时这个国家还发球英国。瑞普-凡-温克尔是一个朴素单纯，性格温和的家伙。在荷兰决督统治时期，他的祖先曾英勇地与英国人战斗过。然而，瑞普的血液里没有多少祖先的军人性格。我已经说了，他是一个朴素单纯，性格温和的家伙。此外他还是一个善良的邻居，也是一个在老婆面前唯唯诺诺的丈夫。由于在家里被老婆管得太严所以他似乎养成了处处与人为善的习惯。因此，除了他老婆外，大这都对他评价很高。当然，他在村子里所有的良家妇女中很受欢迎。每当她们知道了凡-温克尔家吵架，她们总是认定瑞普是对的，而凡-温克尔夫人是错的。孩子们也一样，瑞普-凡-温克尔一来，他们总是欢叫起来。他总是望着他们玩耍，为他们做玩具，教他们怎么玩各种游戏，还给他们讲最精彩的故事。不管他去哪儿，他的四周常常围着一群孩子。村子里没有哪条狗对他狂吠过。瑞普-凡-温克尔有一个缺点：什么赚钱的活儿他都不喜欢，甚至是憎恨。很难理解究竟是什么原因让他不爱劳动。可他从不拒绝帮助邻居，哪怕是干最粗的活儿，比如帮人家砌石墙。村里的妇女也常使唤他，让他传信，或做一些她们的丈夫不愿意做的小活计。换言之，除了自各儿的事情外，别人家的事瑞普都乐意管。至少家庭责任，收拾农场，他觉得这样的活儿绝对做不来。事实上，他宣称在他农场上折腾毫无用处，因为那是整个那一带最差的小块地，一无是处。结果由于他经营不善，失去不少土地，他的小农场比他周围的农场更差了。他的孩子也到处游荡，他们的可怜样和他的农场一样。他的儿子小瑞普，和他很像，整天四处晃荡。他穿着一条他父亲的旧裤子，不得不用一只手提着，免得掉了下来。然而，瑞普-凡-温克尔发球那种有福分的人。他一副傻样，与世无争，待人接物从容快乐；他吃好吃差无所谓，只要得来全不费工夫。如果由着他的性子，他会非常心安理得地虚度一生。可是他老婆在他耳朵边不停地数落他，说他游手好闲，对家庭漠不关心，这个家快给他毁了。从早到晚，她唠叨个没完。他说的每句话，做的每件事，定公招徕她一顿臭骂。瑞普对付他那长舌老婆，倒是有个办法，这个办法用多了。已经成了一个习惯。他只是把头耷拉在肩膀上，眼望天空，一言不发。然而，这又引来老婆的一阵发火。这么一来，瑞普无事可做，只有离开家。在家里，瑞普唯一的朋友就是他的狗，名叫沃尔夫。沃尔夫常常是凡-温克尔太太的出气筒，因为她把他们看做是游手好闲的难兄难弟，有时她甚至指责说：瑞普之所以吊儿郎当都是这条狗的错。不错，沃外交活动夫在树林里像条狗，很勇敢，可是再勇敢的狗也经不住一个长舌妇的数落。每当沃尔夫走进家门，他总是耷拉着脑袋，尾巴垂掉在地上或夹在两腿间。他在屋里溜达，一脸心虚的样子，时刻从眼角观察着凡-温克尔太太，一看到她有一丝不快的迹象，便拨腿开溜。瑞普-凡-温克尔结婚后，随着岁月的推移，他的麻烦也越来越多。有很长一段时间，当凡-温克尔太太的唠叨迫使他出门时，他总是和其他闲人坐在一块儿安慰自己。他和这些闲人常坐在村里的小酒馆前面，酒馆的名字就是因英王乔治三世下的肖像而起的。在漫长的夏天里，他们常常坐在树要荫下，没完没了地讲述那些让人打盹的无聊故事。有时候，他们中有人碰巧发现一张过路的游客扔下来的旧报纸，这时他们会非常认真地听报纸上的内容，因为德瑞克-凡-巴梅尔会读给他们听（德瑞克-凡-巴梅尔是村里的小学教师，很有学问，词典里最长的词也难不倒他）。接着他们会露出很有学问的样子讨论几个月前发生的新闻。众人发表的看法完全由尼古拉斯德维达裁决，他是村里岁数最大的老人，是酒馆的主人。他从早到晚坐在门口，只有为了避开太阳要蹲在大树树荫下面的时候，他才挪一下位置。的确，他很少开口讲话，而是
不停地抽着烟斗，但是他的崇拜者们最了解他，他们知道怎么才能让他就某个话题发表他的高见。要是读的什么内容或讲的什么话让他不开心，他就会狠狠地抽着烟斗；要是他高兴起来，他会慢慢而静静地抽烟。有时候，他从嘴里拿开烟斗，让烟雾在鼻子上方萦绕，点头以示同意大家正在讨论的内容。可是就连这帮能安慰瑞普的人也最终被迫离开倒霉的瑞普。他老婆突然破门而入，直接冲着谈笑正欢的俱乐部，将俱乐部的成员骂得一文不值。甚至了不起的尼古拉斯-维达也难逃这位凶悍的泼妇的一顿肆意辱骂。她指着他的鼻子责骂说，她丈夫游手好闲他要负主要责任。可怜的瑞普因此几乎被逼上了绝路。他唯一能逃避的办法就是拿着猎枪到深山老林去。在山林里，他有时和他忠实的狗一起坐在树下，沃尔夫是他同病相怜的伙伴。“可怜的沃尔夫，”他常这么对他说，“你的日子也不好过，不过别害怕。只要我活着，总有一个朋友和你站在一边！”沃尔夫听罢总是摇摆着尾巴，伤心地望着他的主人。如果狗能有怜悯之心，我坚信他会真心实意地同情瑞普的。在某个秋天就这样长时间地漫步后，瑞普发现自己爬到了卡兹吉尔山脉最大的山峰。他专心于他喜爱的消遣---打猎，枪声划破了山林荒凉的宁静。他累得气喘吁吁，到了傍晚，便在悬崖上一个长满绿草的小土丘上躺了下来。有一会儿，他躺在地上观看着山景。夜色快要降临；君山开始在山谷投下长长的蓝色影子。他知道他没到村里，天早就黑了；一想到凡-温克尔太太生气的脸，他就深深在叹气。就在他准备下山时，他突然听到远处有人喊他，“瑞普-凡-温克尔！瑞普-凡-温克尔！”他看了看周围，除了一只大鸟孤单地飞越大山外，什么也没看到。他判断这声音只是他的想象。他转身准备下山，他又听到那喊叫声在寂静的夜空回荡；“瑞普-凡-温克尔！” 时他的狗感到毛骨悚然，他跑到主人身边，恐怖地望着山谷。瑞普心里心感到害怕，不安地朝着同一方向看去。他看到了一个奇怪的身影在岩石上攀登着，背上驮着什么沉甸甸的东西。瑞普感到惊讶；在这样荒无人烟的地方竟然看到有人。可是一想到可能是哪一个需要帮忙的邻居，瑞普赶紧冲了下去。他再往前一靠近，陌生人古怪的模样让他更加吃惊了。他是一个个头矮小的老头，膀大腰粗，头发浓密，还长着一撮灰白色的山羊胡子。他穿的是以前的荷兰老款式服装---系着腰带的短布外套产层层相叠的裤子。最外面一层裤子又大又宽，裤脚管两侧镶着几排纽扣。他肩上扛着一只木桶，里面似乎装满了酒。他示意瑞普过来帮他卸下肩上的东西。瑞普虽然不完全信任这个长相古怪的陌生人，但还是走了过去帮他一把。他们搭手抬着木桶，里面似乎装满了酒。他示意瑞普过来帮他卸下肩上的东西。瑞普虽然不完全信任这个长相古怪的陌生人，但还是走了过去帮他一把。他们搭手抬着木桶，沿着山腰狭窄的溪沟小道向高耸的岩石山峰攀登时，瑞普开始听到一些异常的声音，有点儿像打雷声，似乎是从山峰间狭窄的山谷深渊中传出来的。他止步听了听，觉得一定是不远处经过的雷暴。穿过溪沟小道后，他们来到了一个小山洞，山洞像古希腊时期建造的地下剧场。一路上，瑞普和他的同伴一声不吭地爬着山路，因为瑞普尽管对有人在这荒山野岭竟然扛着装着酒的木桶感到不解，但他缺乏勇气去问这个陌生的新朋友。走进山洞，只见各种令人惊奇的新鲜玩意儿。洞里的中央有一小块平地，一帮面貌古怪的人正在玩九木柱游戏。他们身着非常奇特的服装，有些腰带上还佩着刀，他们大部分都穿着又长双宽的裤子，和瑞普的向导的裤子差不多。他们的长相也是古里古怪的，其中有一位，满脸似乎就是一个大鼻子，头顶一顶大白帽。他们都有胡子，形状和颜色各异。有一位好像这帮人的头儿，他是一个身体厚实的老者，佩着宽腰带，戴着一顶插着羽毛的高顶帽，脚上穿着红袜子和高跟鞋。还有一点让瑞普感到特别奇怪。这帮人显然是在玩游戏，可是他们个个
表情认真严肃。他们默默地打着球，事实上是他见过的最死气沉沉的游戏聚会。场上除了森柱的滚动声外没有任何声音。木柱滚动时，撞击声像雷声一样响彻山空。当瑞普和他的同伴走近他们的时候，他们突然停下手中的游戏，用奇怪的眼光盯着他看，看得他浑身发毛，两腿颤抖。此时他的同伴将木桶里的东西倒进几个大金属杯子里，示意他端给那帮人。他胆战心惊地照做了。他们一声不吭地喝掉了杯中之物，然后继续他们的游戏。瑞普的紧张和害怕渐渐离他而去。他甚至趁别人不注意地时候壮着胆子尝了一口酒，他很喜欢。不一会儿，他觉得再尝一口的时机到了。他一口接着一口，到了最后，他的眼睛怎么也睁不开，头也耷拉在胸前；他进入了梦乡。醒来时，他发现自己躺在那个长满绿草的小土丘上，他就是在这儿看到那个扛着木桶的老者的。他擦了擦眼睛，知道现在已经是阳光明媚的早晨。鸟儿在树丛中欢唱，树叶随着一阵阵清新的山风摇动着。 “当然，”瑞普心想，“我没有在这儿睡上一夜吧！”他记得他睡着前发生的一切：那个扛着酒桶的怪老头-----他们攀越的岩石山路---表情严肃的九木柱游戏者-----金属杯里的美酒。“哦！好杯子！那神奇的杯子！”瑞普想起来了。“我该找个什么借口对凡-温克尔太太说呢？”他环顾四周找他的枪，可是在他身边找到的不是那支擦得锃亮的，上好了油的猎枪，而是一支年久不用生了锈的枪。他现在知道了，是山里那帮九木柱游戏者捉弄了他；他们用酒将他灌醉，然后偷了他的枪。他的狗沃尔夫也不见了，也许跑到什么地方捉鸟或捉兔子去了。瑞普吹哨子，喊他的名字，可是全是徒劳。山里回荡着他的哨子声和喊叫声，可就是不见他的狗。瑞普决定回到昨晚聚会的地方。“如果我见到他们，”他自言自语道，“我就向他们要我的狗和枪。” 他正准备起身要走的时候，他发现他的腿似乎不如平时灵便了；他感到两腿和后背酸痛。“这些山床对健康不利，”瑞普想。“要是这次经历使我卧床不起，那我又要挨凡-温克尔太太一顿臭骂了。他有些吃力地往山下走，来到了山谷。他找到了他和他的伙伴前一天晚上走过的那条溪沟山道，可是让他非常吃惊的是，这条沟道现在流淌着溪流，溪水在岩石间飞溅，山谷里发出山泉流淌时的尝淙淙欢笑声。不过，他试着沿小溪水边攀行，穿孔机过树丛和攀缘植物。他总算来到了那个岩石张开的开阔地，也就是九木柱游戏场地的入口处。可现在连那块开阔地的影子也没有。那些岩石现在变成了一堵不可逾越的高墙屏障，山涧溪流从这里哗哗落到下面的水塘里。可怜的瑞普被迫在这里止住脚步。他又吹了哨子，喊他狗的名字，可是回答他的只是一群山鸟。带着困惑和不安，他转身向家里走去。快到村子的时候，他碰见了好几个人，可他一个也不认识，这让他感到惊讶，因为他以为这一带什么人他都认识。这些人的衣着打扮也和他的朋友和邻居们不一样。他们和他一样满脸的惊讶。他们盯着他看，还抬手摸他的下巴。这种频繁的举动促使瑞普不假思索地也摸了摸自己的下巴。想象一个，当他发觉自己的胡须比以前长了一英尺的时候，他有多么吃惊！现在他已经到了村口。一君陌生的孩子跟在他后面跑并在他身后指着他灰白的胡子喊叫着。那些狗也变得同他以前认得的不一样。他们恶意地对着他狂吠。就连村子的面貌也变了；村子变大了。一排排房子，瑞普以前从未见过，他记得的房子全不见了。门上写着陌生的名字，窗户里看到的是陌生的面孔，一切的一切全是陌生的。这时，瑞普更加不安和迷惑了。“昨天晚上那只杯子，”他想道，“毁了我那可怜的大脑。” 费了好大一会儿工夫，他找到了回有的路，他内心带着惧怕向自己的房子走去，时刻等待着凡-温克尔太太的叫骂声。他发现家里的房子破烂不堪，几乎就是一堆旧木板。屋顶塌了，窗户破了，门板倒在地上。一条瘦骨嶙峋的狗站在荒废的房前，样子很像沃尔夫。瑞普叫他的名字，可是这条狗对他
露出牙齿，然后走开了。这是让瑞普感到最伤心的事了。“我的狗，我那踏实的狗，”瑞普叹了口气，“就连我的狗也把我忘了。” 他走进房子的废墟。说实话，凡-温克尔太太以前总是把屋子收拾得井井有条。可是现在房空人去。他匆匆赶到村酒馆，在那里他打发过许多闲散时刻。可是酒馆也不复存在了，取而代之的是一幢大旧木楼，窗户很大，有些已尼打碎了。门上有一个招牌，上面写着；“联合酒店，乔纳森-督利特尔。”那棵原来遮着冷清的荷兰小酒馆的大树没有了。现在是一根很高的杆子，上面是一面旗帜，旗帜上奇怪地组合着许多星条。所有这一切都很奇怪，让人很难理解。但瑞普认得招牌上的画像；那是乔治国王的画像，他在下面平静地抽过许多次烟斗。可就连这画像也觉得古怪，与以前的不同。陛下的红色上有变成了蓝色，他头上戴的是帽子而不是皇冠。画像下面有一行字：华盛顿将军。和以往一样，门口有一群人，但瑞普谁也不认识。他徒劳地寻找着智者尼古拉斯-维达（他长着宽脸，双下巴，抽着长烟斗，嘴里吐出烟云，而不是愚蠢的高谈阔论）。他寻找凡-巴梅尔，那个人他们读旧报的小学教员。可是这些人都不在，他倒是看到了一上瘦瘦的，长相可恶的家伙正在高声谈论公民权----选举---国会成员-----自由还有令凡-温克尔困惑不解的其它新名词。酒店里的这帮政客不久注意到了瑞普：他蓄着长长的灰白胡子，一身过时的服装，手里拿着一杆上锈的猎枪，身后跟着一大帮好奇的妇女和孩子。人们簇拥在他周围，从头到脚地打量着他。那个政治演说者走近他，低声问他，“您的选票投哪一方？” 还一个忙碌的小个子拖住他的胳膊，问他发球那个党派。就在瑞普考虑着这些问题是什么意思的时候，一个模样自负的绅士穿过人群，站在瑞普-凡-温克尔面前，问他，“你为什么抓扛着枪来参加革命选举，后面还跟着嘈杂的人群？你是不是想在村里制造混乱？” “哎呀，老爷！”可怜的瑞普叫道。“我是个不爱闹事的可怜人，是这个地方土生土长的村民，国王陛下的忠实臣民，愿上帝保佑他！” 一听到这句话，众人愤怒地喊道，“他说‘愿上帝保佑国王’！把他轰走！送他坐监狱！”那个样子自负的人费了好大的工夫才让大家平静下来，然后又问瑞普为什么来这儿，他来找谁？可怜的瑞普低声下气地向他保证他绝无恶意，他来这里只是为了寻找和个以前常坐在客栈前面的邻居。 “那么，他们都是谁？说出他们的名字？” 瑞普想了想，然后问道，“尼古拉斯-维达在哪儿？” 人群中一时没有人答应。过了片刻，有一个老头用尖细的声音答道，“尼古拉斯-维达！他早已不在人世了，他死了18年了！” “布洛姆-答契尔在哪儿？”瑞普问。 “哦，战争一开始的时候他就去当兵了。有人说他在斯陡尼要塞的那场战役中阵亡了。也许是的，也许不是，我不清楚。但他再也没有回来过。” “那个小学教员凡-巴梅尔在哪儿？” “他也去打仗了，”那老人说。“他是个将军，现在进了国会。” 听到他家里和朋友发生了这么大的变化，他心里很悲伤，感到自己成了这个世界上孤苦伶仃的人。每个答案都让他困惑不解。这些人的回答说明，不知许多年过去了，他们提到的事情----战争----国会----斯陡尼要塞----他都不明白。他没敢再往下打听其他朋友，而是绝望地喊道，“这儿有人认识瑞普-凡-温克尔吗？” “哦，瑞普-凡-温克尔，”有两三个人惊叫起来。“是的，是他！瑞普-凡-温克尔在那儿呢，倚在树上的那一个。” 瑞普在人群中看到了一个长得和他上山时的模样一样的男人。显然，这个人和他以前一样对干活没有兴趣，他的衣服也和他以前的衣服一样破旧。不幸的瑞普此时脑子被搞湖涂了。他感到纳闷，他究竟是自己呢，还是某个其他人。就在他困惑不定时，人群中有人问，“你是谁？你叫什么名字？” “天知道！”瑞普绝望地高声说道。“我不是我自己我是另一个人。那儿的那个人是我。不，那是和我长得一模
一样的另外某个人。昨天晚上我还是我来着，可我在山上睡着了，他们换了我的枪，什么都变了样。我也变了模样，我说不出我的名字，也说不出我是谁？” 他的听众此刻开始面面相觑，会意地笑了。不难看出这个老头发疯了。有人低声说“缴了他的枪！谁知道这个老家伙下面会干出什么事来？” 可正在这时候，一个长得好看的妇女挤到人群前面来看这位灰白胡子老人，她怀里的孩子被他的外貌吓得哭了起来安静，瑞普，“她对孩子说。”安静，你这个小傻瓜，这个老人不会伤害你的。“ 孩子的名字，母亲的姿态和她说话原语调，这一切在瑞普-凡-温克尔脑海里勾起了一连串的回忆。“您叫什么名字，好夫人？” 他问道。 “朱蒂丝-嘉顿妮尔，”她答道。 “您父亲叫什么？” “哦，可怜的人！他叫瑞普-凡-温克尔，可是20年前，他带着猎枪离家出走了，此后谁也没有他的消息。他的狗回来了，可他没有。他是开枪自杀了，还是被印第安人掳走了，谁也不知道。我当时只是一个小女孩。” 瑞普只有一个问题要问了。他声音颤抖地问： “你母亲在哪儿？” “哦，她死了，就在不久前。她是对一个上门兜售产品的人发火，结果血管破裂死了。” 这个消息至少给他带来一点安慰。这个诚实的老人再也控制不住自己的感情。他一把抱住他的女儿和她的孩子。“我是你的父亲！”他哭着说道。“从前是年轻的瑞普—凡-温克尔，现在成了老瑞普-凡-温克尔了。这儿没人认得可怜的瑞普-凡-温克尔吗？” 大伙儿站在那儿，目瞪口呆，最后一个老太太离开人群，抬头打量了他片刻，然后惊叫起来：“没错！是瑞普-凡-温克尔；是瑞普欢迎您回家，老邻居！可是这20年来你去哪儿了？” 瑞普很快讲完了他的故事，因为对他来说这整整20年只是一夜的时间。邻居们听了这个故事都睁大眼睛。有些不以为然的邻居彼此笑笑，表露出打趣的神色。那位看上去自负的拉下嘴角，摇了摇头。众人看了也一起摇起头来。然而大家一致同意听听老彼得-范德栋克怎么说，因为有人看到他慢慢向这边走来，彼得是这个村子上年龄最大的。他对这个地区的历史了如指掌。他马上想起了瑞普，最让人信服地证实了他的故事。长话短说，众人散去，回到了他们更关心的话题----选举。瑞普的女儿领回瑞普和她一起生活。她有一个舒适的家，丈夫是一个快乐的农夫，瑞普记得，他还是孩子的时候，他经常驮他。至于瑞普的儿子，简直就是自己的翻版。尽管像他父亲一样，也有料理百家事而不愿干自家活儿的习惯，但是他还是受雇在农场工作。现在瑞普又回到了他从前的生活方式。他不久找到了很多以前的老伙伴。因为他们都已经老态龙钟了，所以他更喜欢在年轻人中间交朋友，他们很快喜欢上了他。因为他在家无事可做，也因为他已以到了安享晚年的年龄，没人责备他游手好闲，所以他又坐在村里小酒馆的门前。在那里，他被看做村里的老人，受人尊敬，他可以讲讲“战争前”旧时代发生的事情。过了很长时间，他才真正搞明白他那18年的一觉期间发生了许多不可思议的事件。他得弄清楚这期间发生的革命战争。这场战争使得这个国家因此脱离了英国的统治；他不再是乔治三世陛下的臣民，而是美利坚的自由公民。瑞普实际上不是一个政客，国家和帝国的改朝换代对他来说几乎没有什么印象，但是有一种独立他很明白，那就是他摆脱说话尖刻的老婆。幸运的是，他现在有了这种自主权；在家里他可以随心所欲地进进出出。然而每当有人提到凡-温克尔太太的时候，他总是摇摇头，眼光投向天空。谁也不知道这是表示他接受了命运的摆布，还是表明对自己的解脱感到欣慰。他常对每个来督利特尔的酒店的陌生人讲他的故事。人们注意到，起初他每次讲他的故事的时候，总要改变一些细节。但是这个故事最终固定了下来，和我上述的故事完全一样；村里男女老少无人不晓。有些人想说他们对这个故事的真实性确信无疑。甚至到了今天，每当他们在夏日的下午听
到卡兹吉尔山脉附近的雷暴时，他们说这是享德里克-哈得逊和他的水手在玩九木柱游戏。这一带许多在家受气的丈夫有时也希望喝上一口瑞普-凡-温克尔神杯里的酒，能一睡解千愁
\"Rip Van Winkle\" is about a man named Rip Van Winkle, who lived in a little Dutch town in the Hudson Valley. Everyone in the town was very fond of him because he would help anyone who needed help and he would play with the children. The thing he couldn't do was tend to his farm because it seemed that everything he did failed, so he would go out and fish or go to the town inn and listen to the gossip. His wife Dame Van Winkle would get angry at him for being lazy and not tending to the farm. One day he decided that he had one option to get away from his wife and the farm, which was to take his gun and dog and go into the woods and hunt squirrels.
He spent all day looking for squirrels, but couldn't find any. So he lied on the grass and after awhile he noticed it was getting dark, so he started back. As he did this, he heard someone calling his name and then he saw a ghost appear carrying a keg of liquor on his back. So they both went together down the woods until they came to this opening where they saw these weird dressed people playing 9 pin. Rip and the ghost walked up towered them and the ghost poured liquor into the flasks for the people to drink and Rip started to drink too until he passed out on the ground. The next mourning he woke up and didn't know what to tell his wife. He reached for his gun, but all he saw was a rusted out gun instead of the well oiled, shiny gun. Then he looked for his dog and he couldn't find his dog.
So he went back in town and everyone stared at him like they didn't know him. He looked at himself to see what everyone was staring at and he saw that he had a beard a foot long. He looked around the village and nothing was familiar, even his house which looked like a run-down shack. He went to the tavern to see if he recognized anyone, which he didn't. Then he started calling the his friends names to see if anyone has heard of them and they all said that they were have moved on or dead. Then he asked if they have heard of the name Rip Van Winkle and they all pointed to his son, which looked just like him. This made Rip think that he had woke up someone else because his son looked just like him.
Then a woman with a child in her arms came to see the man. Rip had overheard the name of the child was Rip and he asked her who was her father and she said her father was Rip Van Winkle, who left when she was a child twenty years ago. Then Rip told her that he was her Events, no matter how small can change a society, a culture, and an outlook in the blink of an eye. Whether it is in a war, a speech, a gesture, or even a novel. Washington Irving made an incredible impact from his short story \"Rip Van Winkle\drawing the events surrounding him to form a simple story with deep meaning. To bring to a pinpoint, the story shaped the American culture as the American culture shaped the story.
From this folklore, others have grown from it. Some believe that Rip in fact did not fall asleep, but took adventurous journeys in foreign lands with strange people. Art and child-like fantasies have been the median to which the stories have been communicated. Drawings consist of fairy-like areas and magical settings have attracted children and adults alike.
\"Rip Van Winkle\" has affected elements across the board. It shows up everywhere. Since 1819, the story, the name, and what it stand for has touched all parts of the arts, literature, education, and culture. The number of editions that the story has accumulated is higher than most and comes in all forms of literature from cheap paperbacks to elaborated illustrations that have become classics. Mentioned in other literature, in politics, and in a variety of languages, it is used to define what our country became after the revolutionary war and how the British perceive the Americans. The fact that Rip fell asleep due to the effects of a drink. England felt that the Americans were lazy alcoholics that would fall apart if not for the British authorities controlling them.
The story of Rip Van Winkle has almost come to the point where it has become commercialized. If one travels into the Catskills, they will come across an array of tourist attractions ranging from hotels, to Lakes, to gas stations. There is a tour company that travels from New York to the Catskills. There one will find a famous garden with the same name.
In conclusion, the story Rip Van Winkle has affected and in turn, been affected by American society. How can we apply this to modern day society? Are we still able to compare that way that are government has evolved? Not only was it new beginning for a new style of writing it was a new start for a country. Washington could in no way have known how much his story would effect our culture.
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