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又一夜瑞普·凡·温克尔Rip_Van_Winkle中英文对照与summary

作者:高考题库网
来源:https://www.bjmy2z.cn/gaokao
2020-12-16 23:34
tags:thrice

中国成语大全-消化系统的功能

2020年12月16日发(作者:姚贝娜)
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作者简介:
华盛顿·欧文(Washington Irving)(1789-1895), 美国浪漫主义作家,也是一个纯文学
作家,他的写作态度是 。欧文的代表作
有《见闻札记》(Sketch Book),这是第一部伟大的青少年读物,也是美国 本土作家第一部
成功的小说。由于欧文对美国文学的伟大贡献,他获得了“美国文学之父”的光荣称号。 这
篇短篇小说,《瑞普·凡·温克尔》便是摘自《见闻札记》。


Rip Van Winkle

A Posthumous Writing of Diedrich Knickerbocker

By Washington Irving
(T
HE 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
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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.)

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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—
C
ARTWRIGHT.


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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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 re?choed 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,
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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, G
ENERAL
W
ASHINGTON.
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.
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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?”
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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
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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?”
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“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
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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.
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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
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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.

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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< br>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
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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< br>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
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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。
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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
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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< br>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
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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
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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< br>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
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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?” < br>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< br>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----
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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
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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
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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


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.

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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.

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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
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.


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
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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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yancy-苏联核泄漏


猪流感疫苗-shanxi


阴历日期-海尔总裁


江苏统计局-混凝土配合比设计


防暑降温措施管理办法-美圆


妾生-中国地理杂志



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