《综合英语》课程教学资源Ⅰ_39572_课程资源_现代大学英语1_Unit 1_Rip Van Winkle.doc

1 Rip Van Winkle Washington Irving The Kaatskill mountains rise on the west of the Hudson River, high above the surrounding country, in the State of New York. Every change of season, every change of weather, indeed, every hour of the day, produces some change in the colors and shapes of these mountains. By looking at Kaatskills from time to time, the people of the region can guess what the weather is going to be. Just below these strange mountains, the voyager may have observed the thin smoke curling up from a Dutch village many years old. In that same village Rip Van Winkle lived. He lived there many years ago, while the country still belonged to England. Rip Van Winkle was a simple, good-natured fellow, whose ancestors had fought bravely in the days of the Dutch governors. Rip, however, had little of his ancestor’s military character. I have said that he was a simple, good-natured man. He was, in addition, a kind neighbor, and a husband who humbly obeyed his wife. Being firmly controlled by his wife at home, he seemed to have formed the habit of being agreeable to all. As a result, he was thought highly of by everyone except his wife. Certainly he was a great favorite among all the good wives of the village. Whenever they discussed the Van Winkle family’s quarrels, they always decided that Rip was right, and that Dame Van Winkle was wrong. The children of the village, too, always shouted with joy when Rip Van Winkle approached. He watched them at their sports, made play-things for them, taught them how to play various games, and told them long stories of the most exciting kind. Wherever he went, he was usually surrounded by a crowd of children; and no dog in the village ever barked at him. Rip Van Winkle had one great fault: he dislike——indeed, he hated——any kind of profitable labor. It is hard to understand just why he did not like to work. He never refused to help a neighbor, even with the roughest sort of the work, such as helping people build stone walls. The women of the village, too, often used him to carry messages for them, or to do small jobs that their husbands were not willing to do. In other words, Rip was ready to take care of anybody’s business except his own. As for his family duties, and for keeping his farm in order, he found such work impossible. In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his farm; it was the worst little piece of ground in the whole country; everything about it was wrong. As a result, since he had lost much of his family’s land during years of bad management, his small farm was in worse condition than any neighboring farm. His children, too, went about looking as poor as his farm. His son, Rip, who was very much like him, ran around wearing a pair of his father’s old trousers, which he had to hold up with one hand in order to prevent them from falling. Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those fortunate people, with foolish, well-oiled natures, who take the world easily and cheerfully, eat fine food or poor, whichever can be got with least thought or trouble. If permitted, he would have sat whistling his life away in perfect contentment; but his wife kept continually reminding him about his idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he was bring on his family. Morning, noon, and night, her tongue was ceaselessly going. Everything he said or did was sure to produce more angry talk. Rip had just one way of replying to his wife’s talk; by frequent use it had become a habit. He merely put his head on his shoulders, looked up toward heaven, and said nothing. This, however, always produced a fresh burst of anger from his wife. There was nothing for Rip to do then except to leave the house

2 Rip’s only friend in the Van Winkle home was his dog, whose name was Wolf. Wolf was often the object of Dame Van Winkle’s displeasure, for she considered the two of them companions in idleness; indeed, she sometimes even blamed the dog for Rip’s wandering way. True, in the woods Wolf was as brave as an honorable dog should be; but what dog is ever brave enough to stand firm against the terrors of a women’s tongue? As soon as Wolf entered the house, his head bent low, his tail lay on the ground or curled between his legs. He went around the house with a guilty look, watching Dame Van Winkle out of the corner of his eye, ready to run from the room at the slightest sign of her displeasure. Rip Van Winkle’s troubles increased as the years of his marriage passed. For a long time he used to comfort himself by sitting with other idle men, when Dame Van Winkle’s talk had forced him out of the house. He and these idle persons used to sit in front of the village inn, a small hotel whose name was suggested by a picture of His Majesty George the Third. Here they often sat in the shade through a long summer day, telling endless sleepy stories abut nothing. Sometimes, by chance, one of the men found an old newspaper which had been left behind by some passing traveler. Then how seriously they would listen to the contents, as the newspaper was read aloud by Derrick Van Bummel, the schoolteacher, a man of great learning, who was not afraid of the longest word in the dictionary. And how wisely they would discuss the public events which had occurred several months before. The opinions of this group were completely controlled by Nicholas Vedder, the oldest man in the village, who owned the inn. He sat at the door of the inn from morning till night, moving just enough to avoid the sun and keep in the shade of a large tree. It is true that he almost never spoke, but smoked his pipe continually. His admirers, however, understood him perfectly, and knew how to get his opinions on any subject. When anything that was read or told displeased him, he smoked his pipe angrily; but when he was pleased, he smoked slowly and calmly. Sometimes, taking the pipe from his mouth, he let the smoke curl about his nose and moved his head up and down as a sign of agreement with what was being said. But even the comforting companionship of this group was finally taken from the unlucky Rip. His wife suddenly broke in upon the pleasant discussion-club and gave its members her opinion of their worthlessness. Not even the great Nicholas Vedder himself was safe from the tongue of this daring woman, who blamed him directly for much of her husband’s idleness. Poor Rip was thus driven almost to despair. His only remaining means of escape was to take his gun and walk away into the woods. Here he would sometimes seat himself at the foot of a tree with his faithful dog and fellow sufferer, Wolf. “Poor Wolf,” he would say. “Your life is hard and sad indeed, but never fear. While I live there will always be one friend to stand beside you!” Wolf would wag his tail and look sadly into his master’s face. If dogs can feel pity, I truly believe he pitied Rip with all his heart. After a long, wandering walk of this kind on a certain autumn day, Rip found that he had climbed to one of the biggest parts of the Kaatskill mountains. He was engaged in his favorite sport of hunting, and the lonely stillness of the woods had often been broken by the sound of his gun. Tired and breathless, he threw himself, late in the afternoon, on a little green hill at the highest point of land. For some time Rip lay observing the scene. Evening had almost come; 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 sighed deeply when he thought of Dame Van Winkle’s angry face. Just as he was about to go down the mountain, he heard a voice from the distance call. “Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!” He looked around, but could see nothing except a large bird winging its lonely flight across the mountain. He decided he had merely imagined the voice, and had turned again to climb down, when he heard the same cry ring through the quiet evening air: “Rip Van Winkle!” At the same time, the hairs on his dog’s back stood up straight, and the dog moved

3 to his master’s side, looking fearfully into the valley. Rip now felt the same fear within him, and he looked anxiously in the same direction. There he saw a strange figure slowly climbing up the rocks, bending under the weight something he carried on his back. Rip was surprised to see any human being in this lonely place. But, supposing it was some neighbor in need of help, he hurried down to give it. As he approached more closely, he was still more surprised at the oddness of the stranger’s appearance. He was a short old fellow, built quite square, with think bushy hair and a grayish beard! His clothes were in the old Dutch fashion——a short cloth jacket with a belt, and several pairs of trousers. The outer trousers were side and loose, with rows of buttons down the sides. On his shoulder he carried a wooden keg which seemed full of liquor; and he motioned to Rip to approach and help him with his load. Though not entirely trusting this odd-looking stranger, Rip advanced to aid him. They carried the keg together up a narrow cut in the mountain side which might once have been made there by a mountain stream. As they climbed, Rip began to notice some unusual sounds. They were somewhat like the sounds of distant thunder, and they seemed to rise out a deep and narrow valley among the towering rocks toward which their rough path led. He paused for an instant to listen, but decided there must be a passing thunderstorm not far away. Satisfied with this explanation of the noises, he proceeded. Passing through the cut in the mountain, they came to a small hollow, like one of the theaters cut into the earth in ancient Greece. During this whole time, Rip and his companion had labored on in silence; for through Rip wondered why anyone should carry a keg of liquor up this wild mountain, he lacked the courage to question his strange new friend. When they entered the hollow, new objects of wonder could be seen. On a level spot in the center, a group of odd-looking persons was playing ninepins. The players were dressed in a most unusual fashion. Some had knives in their belts, and most of them had long, loose trousers similar to those worn by Rip’s guide. Their faces, too, were odd. They face of one seemed to consist entirely of a nose, topped by a large white hat. They all had beards, of various shapes and colors. There was one who seemed to be the leader of the group. He was a thick-bodies old gentleman, wearing a broad belt, a tall hat with a feather, red stockings, and high-heeled shoes. Something else seemed particularly odd to Rip. Although these folk were evidently playing a game, yet their faces were serious and grave. They played in silence and were, in fact, the saddest party of pleasure that he had ever seen. Nothing interrupted the stillness of the scene except of the noise of the balls. Whenever these were rolled, the sound broke through the mountain air like thunder. As Rip and his companion approached them, they suddenly stopped their game and stared at him with such a strange gaze that his heart turned within him and his knees knocked together. His companion now emptied the contents of the keg into a large metal cups, and motioned to him to serve the company. He obeyed with fear and trembling. They drank the liquor in deepest silence, and then returned to their game. Little by little Rip’s nervous awe began to leave him. He even dared, when no one was looking, to taste the drink, and he liked it very much. He soon felt it was time to take another taste. One taste followed another, until at last his eyes refused to stay open, his head dropped upon his chest, and he fell into a deep sleep. On waking, he found himself on the green hill where he had first seen the old man with the keg. He rubbed his eyes, and found it was a bright, sunny morning. The birds were singing happily among the bushes, where leaves were stirring with every movement of the pure mountain air

4 “Surely,” thought Rip, “I have not slept here all night!” He remembered all that had happened before he fell asleep. The strange men with the keg of liquor——the way they had climbed down through the rocks——the serious players at ninepins——the excellent drink in the metal cup. “Oh! That cup! That powerful cup!” thought Rip. “What excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle?” He looked around for his gun, but instead of the clean, well-oiled hunting-piece, he found an ancient rusty gun lying beside him. He now decided that the sad ninepin players of the mountain had tricked him: having put him to sleep with liquor, they had stolen his gun. His dog Wolf, too, had disappeared. Perhaps he had wandered off to hurt a bird or a rabbit. Rip whistled for him and called his name, but all in vain. The mountains sent back his whistle and his shout, but no dog was to be seen. Rip decided to return to the scene of the last evening’s party. “If I meet any of those men,” he said to himself, “I’ll demand my dog and gun.” As he stood up to walk, he found that his legs seemed stiffer than usual; he felt pains in his legs and his back. “These mountain beds are not good for health,” thought Rip. “If this adventure puts me to bed sick, I shall hear nothing pleasant from Dame Van Winkle.” With some difficulty, he went down into the valley. He found the cut in the mountain through which he and his companion had climbed the evening before; but to his great surprise a mountain stream was now running down it, leaping from rock to rock and filling the valley with laughing murmurs. However, he attempted to climb up its sides, pushing his way through bushes and climbing plants. At last he reached the place where the rocks had opened up, at the entrance to the ninepins playing ground. But now no traces of such an opening remained. The rocks formed a high, impassable wall over which the mountain stream fell noisily to a pool below. Here poor Rip was forced to stop. He again called and whistled for his dog, but was answered only by a flock of birds. With a troubled and anxious heart, he turned his steps toward home. As he approached the village, he met several people, but he knew none of them——a fact which surprised him, for he had thought he knew everyone in the country around. Their clothes, too, were of a different fashion from the clothes of his friends and neighbors. They all stared at him with equal marks of surprise, and all who looked at him lifted their hands to touch their chins. This happened so often that Rip, without thinking, did the same. Imagine this surprise when he found that his beard was a foot longer than it had been before! He had now reached the edge of the village. A crowd of strange children ran at his hells, shouting after him and pointing at his gray beard. The dogs, too, were all different from the dogs he knew. They barked at him in almost unfriendly way. Even the village had changed; it was larger than it had been. There were rows of houses which Rip had never seen before, and those which he remembered had disappeared. Strange names were over the doors——strange faces at the windows——every thing was strange. Rip was now more anxious and puzzled than before. “That cup last night,” thought he, “has ruined my poor brain.” With some difficulty, he found the way to his own house, which he approached with silent awe, expecting every moment to hear the sharp voice of Dame Van Winkle. He found that the house was little more than a pile of old boards. The room had fallen in, the windows were broken, and the doors were lying on the ground. A bony dog that looked like Wolf was standing beside the ruined house. Rip called him by name, but the dog merely showed his teeth and then walked away. This was the cruelest wound of all. “My dog, my faithful dog,” sighed Rip, “even my dog has forgotten me

5 He entered the ruins of the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame Van Winkle had always kept in good order. It was empty; they had all gone away. He hurried forth, to the village inn where he had spent so may idle hours. But it, too, was gone. A large old wooden building stood in its place, with great windows, some of which were broken. Over the door there was a sign saying, “The Union Hotel, Jonathan Doolittle. Instead of the tree that used to shelter the quiet little Dutch inn, there was now a tall pole, with a flag bearing a strange collection of stars and stripes. All this was strange, impossible to understand. But Rip recognized the picture on the sign: it was the face of King George, under which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe. But even that was oddly different from what it had been. His Majesty’s red coat was changed to blue, his head wore a hat instead of a crown, and below there was the words, GENERAL WASHINGTON. There was, as usual, a crowd of folk around the door, but Rip recognized none of them. He looked in vain for the wise Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face and double chin and his long pipe, uttering clouds of instead of foolish speeches. He looked for Van Bummel, the schoolteacher, reading aloud the cont4ents of an ancient newspaper. In place of these, a thin, disagreeable-looking fellow was talking loudly about the rights of citizens——elections——Member of Congress——liberty——and other words, which meant nothing to the puzzled Van Winkle. The group of hotel politicians soon noticed Rip, with his long gray beard, his old-fashioned clothes, his rusty gun, and the procession of curious women and children at his heels. People crowded around him, studying his appearance form head to foot. The political speaker approached him and inquired, in low tones, “On which side do you vote?” Another short but busy little fellow pulled him by the arm and asked what party he belonged to. While Rip was considering what these questions might mean, an important-looking gentleman pushed his way through the crowd and planted himself in front of Rip Van Winkle, demanding “Why have you come to the election with a gun on your shoulder and a noisy crowd following at your heels? Do you intend to start trouble in this village?” “Alas, gentlemen!” cried poor Rip. “I am a poor quiet man, a native of this place, and a faithful subject of the King, God Bless him!” Hearing this, the crowd shouted in great anger, “‘God Bless the King,’ he says! Take him away! To prison with him!” The important-looking man had great difficulty calming the crowd, after which he again demanded to know why Rip had come there and whom he was seeking. Poor Rip humbly assured him that he meant no harm; he had merely come there to search for some of his neighbors, who used to sit in front of the hotel. “Well, who are they? Name them.” Rip thought for a moment, and then inquired, “Where’s Nicholas Vedder?” There was a silence for a little while. Then an old man replied in a thin, high voice, “Nicholas Vedder! Why he’s been dead and gone for eighteen years!” “Where’s Brom Dutcher?” asked Rip. “Oh, he went off to the army at the beginning of the war. Some say he was killed in a battle at Stony Point. Perhaps he was, and perhaps he wasn’t. I don’t know. But he never came back again.” “Where’s Van Bummel, the schoolteacher?