LESSON 63

RIP VAN WINKLE

瑞普·凡·温克尔

The appearance of Rip, with his long, grizzled beard, his rusty fowling piece, his uncouth dress, and an army of women and children 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, rising 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 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 inquired, “Where’s Nicholas Vedder?” There was a 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 rotten 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 storming of Stony Point; others say he was drowned in a squall at the foot of Anthony’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, comely 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! Rip Van Winkle was his name; but 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, 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.

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. 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.

(Irving)

【中文阅读】

瑞普花白的长须，拎着那把锈迹斑斑的猎枪，一身装束恍若故人，身边围着一群妇女和孩子，他的外表很快就引起小酒馆里热衷于政治的一群人的侧目。他们纷纷围拢过来，将他围在当中，颇为好奇地从头到脚打量他。那位演说者赶忙上前将他拉到一旁，问他投哪一边的票。瑞普茫然地盯着此人，半晌无语。另一位身材矮小忙前忙后的人拽住他胳膊，踮起脚尖凑到他耳畔问：“他是联邦党人还是民主党人。”

瑞普仍旧茫然不知所措；这时，一位似有见识高傲的老绅士，戴了一顶尖尖的三角帽，边推开众人走了进来，边用胳膊示意左右退下，兀自出现在凡•温克尔面前，一只手叉着腰，另一只手拄着手杖，他那双锐利的双眸和尖尖的帽子在某种程度上似乎洞穿了他的内心，以一种严肃的口吻质问瑞普为什么要肩膀上扛着枪来参加选举，且领着一干人等，想生乱滋事不成。

“哎呀，老先生，”瑞普大声说，有点惊愕。“我是个穷人，在当地土生土长，是英王的忠实臣民，苍天可鉴！”这时，一位带头的从看热闹的人中喊道：“他是保皇党！保皇党！保皇党！一个来此避难的！抓住他！打死他！”那位戴着尖顶帽子气派不凡的老者见此危难情景，喝令众人勿躁。他面色十分严厉，眉头紧蹙，再次盘问这位不知来历的罪犯，来此地作甚，是何居心。这位可怜人一再表示请他放心，自己绝无恶意，来这儿只是为了寻找邻居，那人先前经营这家小酒馆。“那好，他们是谁？说出他们的名字来。”

瑞普想了一会儿，打听道：“尼古拉斯•威德尔在吗？”人群片刻无言，这时老者尖声答道：“尼古拉斯•威德尔！他已经死了十八年了！教堂墓地有一块木碑，上面记得一清二楚，不过现在恐怕腐烂得看不清了。”“布罗姆•达彻尔在吗？”“哦，战争刚一开始，他就去参军了。有人说他在斯托尼伯恩特战死了；还有人说他在安东尼诺斯山脚下遭遇一场山洪，溺死了。我也不晓得到底哪种说法可靠，不过他从此杳无音信倒是真的。”

“那小学校长凡•布梅尔呢？”“他也去参战了，后来成为一名将军，现在在国会任要职呢。”在听到自己家和昔日故旧这些令人唏嘘的变故后，发现自己在这个世界上竟然孑然一身。每个回答都令他困惑，时光飞逝竟然出现如此之多的错讹，还有他不明白的事情——战争，国会，斯托尼伯恩特。他实在没有勇气再打听下去了，只好绝望地呼喊道，“这里有人晓得瑞普•凡•温克尔的吗？”

“啊，瑞普•凡•温克尔！”有两三个人高声叫道。“啊，肯定有的！远处的那个就是瑞普•凡•温克尔，倚着树的那位。”瑞普举目望去，凝视着那位和自己长得很相像的人，见他正上山呢。显然，这人和他一样慢吞吞的，衣衫褴褛。现在，这个可怜的家伙完全呆住了；他怀疑自己的身份，到底是自己还是另一个人。在错愕间那位戴尖顶三角帽的老者盘问他到底是谁，到底叫什么名字。

“天晓得！”他喊道，已经懵了。“我不是我，我成了别人；那边的人倒成了我；不，别人穿了我的鞋。昨天晚上我还是我自己；可是我在山上睡着了，我的枪变了模样，一切都面目全非了，我也不是以前的我了，我也说不清我的名字和到底是谁！”

此时，围观者面面相觑，互相点头示意，双手抚额，一筹莫展。也有人小声低语，说先应该夺下他的枪，免得这个老家伙狗急跳墙开枪走火，那个戴尖顶帽颇为高傲的老者暗示大家马上动手。就在这千钧一发之际，一位相貌姣好的妇人拨开众人，瞥了一眼这位一脸灰白胡须的老人。她怀中抱着一个胖乎乎的幼儿，这孩子一见瑞普便吓得大哭。“别哭，瑞普！”她喝道，“别哭，你这个小笨蛋！这位老人又不会打你！”

这孩子的名字，这位母亲的举止和说话的声音，所有这一切唤醒了他心中的记忆。“这位善良的夫人，你的名字是？”他问道。“朱迪丝•卡德尼耶。”“你父亲的名字是？”“哦，那可怜的人！他的名字是瑞普•凡•温克尔。二十年前他拎着枪离家一去未归，从那以后再也没有他的音信。他养的狗也不见了；到底是自杀了还是被印第安人劫走了，谁也说不清。当时我还是个小女孩呢。”

瑞普还想再问一个问题，他的声音颤抖着：“你母亲在哪儿？”“噢，不久后她也死了；在与一个新英格兰小贩的争执中因血管破裂而亡。”有一点值得安慰的是，至少这不属于横死。这个世界上最坦诚的人再也抑制不住了。他抓住自己女儿的手，将她的孩子揽在怀中。“我是你父亲啊！”他失声痛哭道，“曾经年轻的瑞普•凡•温克尔，现在的老瑞普•凡•温克尔！没人认识可怜的瑞普•凡•温克尔吗？”

大伙儿都惊呆了，一位老妇人从人群中蹒跚着走出来，手抚额头盯着他的脸端详了片刻，高喊道：“肯定是他！是瑞普•凡•温克尔！是他本人！欢迎你回家！我的老邻居！这二十年你去哪儿了，怎么一去不复返呢？”瑞普的故事很快就传开了，这二十年对他来说不过是浮生一夕间。

长话短说，大伙儿散去，大家的兴致回到更重要的选举事宜。瑞普的女儿拉着他回家，与她在一起生活。她有个温暖舒适，一应俱全的家，找了一位身体壮实，整天乐呵呵的农夫做丈夫，瑞普忆起自己的女婿原来是个淘气鬼，总是爬到他背上嬉闹。现在，瑞普恢复了旧日走路的样子和习惯，很快又找到许多昔日的旧友，大家见到他免不了一番涕泣，感叹造化弄人。他喜欢与正在长大的一代人交朋友，对他们宠爱有加。

（欧文）