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，selfimportant 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 graybearded 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）

译文　TRANSLATION

瑞普的外貌——花白的长须、锈迹斑斑的猎枪、村野的服饰——和脚后跟着的那一队女人和孩子，很快吸引了客栈里那群“政治家”的注意。他们围住他，从头到脚上下打量着他。那位演讲者匆匆走到他跟前，稍稍将他拉到一边，问他投哪一方的票，瑞普傻傻地看着对方，有些茫然。这时，一个身材矮小的人火急火燎地来到他跟前，拽着他的胳膊，踮起脚，在他耳边问他是联邦党还是民主党。

对这个问题，瑞普也一样不懂。就在这时，一个见多识广、颇为自得的老绅士挤过人群，他戴一顶三角帽，边走边用两肘分开人群，最后，在凡·温克尔面前站定。只见他一手叉腰，一手放在手杖上，他那犀利的目光和尖尖的帽顶仿佛穿透了那人的灵魂，他以郑重的口气盘诘那人为什么扛着枪来参加选举，且带着一干人等，是否要在村中寻衅滋事。

“列位，”瑞普有点儿慌乱地说，“我是个可怜的、不善言辞的人，这里是我的家乡，我是国王忠诚的臣民。愿天佑吾王！”话音未落，周围的人七嘴八舌地喊道：“他是托利党，他是托利党！间谍！难民！抓住他！让他滚远点！”那戴三角帽的、矜持老者颇费了一番功夫才使这混乱的情形恢复秩序，接着，那位老绅士严肃地拧着眉，以一种郑重的口气在场盘问起这个素不相识的肇事者，问他来这里的目的、问他要找谁。这可怜的人谦卑地保证他绝无恶意，他只是要找寻一些他的老邻居，那些人过去就住在这客栈附近。“哦，那他们是谁？说出他们的名字。”

瑞普思忖了一会儿，问道：“尼古拉斯·维德在吗？”沉默了一会儿，一个老人答道：“尼古拉斯·维德啊，他过世已经十八年了。墓园里有块木碑，那上面讲述了他的一生，不过，现在也都朽烂了。”“那布罗姆·达彻呢？”“哦，战争刚一开始，他就参军了。有人说他死在斯通角风暴中；还有人说他在安东尼斯诺斯的一场山洪中淹死了。究竟如何我也不知道；他走了就再没回来过。”

“凡·巴美尔在吗？”“他也去参战了，后来成了一位了不起的将军，如今在国会任职。”听到家乡这些令人感伤的变迁和故友们那些让人唏嘘不已的遭际，瑞普顿觉自己在这世上竟是如此孤单，不禁心如土灰。由于时代的错位，他要面对那么多不得其解的事物——战争、国会、斯通角；每一句回答都带给他困惑。他没有勇气再去问询其他朋友，于是沮丧地问道：“这里没人认识瑞普·凡·温克尔吗？”

“哦，瑞普·凡·温克尔！”两三个人嚷道，“确实。那边倚着树的那个人就是瑞普·凡·温克尔。”瑞普向那边望去，看到一个和自己当初上山时一模一样的人，同样懒散，同样褴褛。这可怜的人简直瞠目结舌。他怀疑起了自己的身份，他是自己还是另一个人，在他困惑不已之际，戴三角帽的人盘问起他是谁以及他叫什么名字来了。

“谁知道呢！”他高声叫道，完全糊涂了。“我不是我自己了，我成了另一个人。那边的人居然是我，不，那是别人乔装改办的我。昨晚我还是我自己；可是我在山中睡着了，他们暗中换了我的枪，而且全都变了，我也变了，我说不出我的名字或者我是谁。”

旁观的人们面面相觑，彼此点点头，意味深长地递个眼色，并用手指轻叩着额头。而在那个戴着三角帽自得的老人匆促后退这一举动的暗示下，人们小声咕哝着怎么夺下他的枪，免得他为非作歹。正在这千钧一发之际，一个清丽的夫人走出人群凝望着这胡须花白的老人。她怀中那个胖嘟嘟的小孩被老人的形貌吓住了，哭了起来。“嘘，瑞普，”女士说道，“别哭，小傻蛋儿！这位老先生不会伤害你的。”

孩子的名字、母亲的情态和语调在他心中唤起一连串回忆。“善良的夫人，请问您的芳名？”“朱迪思·嘉德尼尔。”“敢问令尊大名？”“唉，可怜人！瑞普·凡·温克尔是他的名讳。自从他那次带着枪去打猎到现在已经过了二十年，一直没有他的音讯。他的狗回来了而他却不见踪影。但是，没人能说清他是自杀了还是被印第安人掳走了。那时我还只是个孩子呢。”

瑞普还有一个问题要问。他声音哽咽地说：“你妈妈在哪儿？”“哦，那之后不久，妈妈就不在了。她是因与商贩吵架过于激动导致血管迸裂去世的。”讲罢这段往事，至少有一点值得安慰，正直的瑞普再也控制不住自己，他把女儿和外孙揽在怀里。“我是你爸爸！”他失声痛哭，“曾经年轻的瑞普·凡·温克尔，现在老了。就没人认识可怜的瑞普·凡·温克尔了吗？”

众人站在那儿都惊呆了。直到一位老妇人从人群中蹒跚走出，只见她把手放在眉宇间，凝神端详了一会儿瑞普的脸，叫道：“的确！是他！他是瑞普·凡·温克尔！欢迎回来，老邻居。这二十年你去哪儿了？”瑞普的故事很快就讲完了，因为这二十年对他而言不过是一夜而已。

长话短说，众人散了，重又回到更揪心、更重要的选举上了。瑞普女儿把瑞普带回家与自己合住。房子很温馨、陈设考究；女婿是位开朗、健壮的农场主，瑞普记起这位贤婿在顽童时代曾常常爬到自己背上嬉闹。如今，瑞普回到了自己旧日的生活轨道并恢复了以往的习惯。不久，他找到了很多故交旧友，不过，在岁月煎迫下，大家都垂垂老矣；相较之下，他更喜欢与后生交往，对他们喜爱有加。

（欧文）