V. Irving
Rip Van Winkle
At the foot of the Kaathsky Mountains is an ancient village, founded by Dutch settlers in the earliest period of colonization. In ancient times, when this region was still a British province, there lived in it a good-natured fellow named Rip Van Winkle. All his neighbors loved him, but his wife was so quarrelsome that he tried to leave the house more often, so as not to hear her scolding. Once Rip went to the mountains to hunt. When he was about to return home, he was called by an old man. Surprised that in such a desolate place was a man, Rip hurried to the rescue. The old man was wearing an old Dutch garment and was carrying a barrel on his shoulders – evidently with vodka. Rip helped him up the slope. All the way the old man was silent. After passing the gorge, they went out into a hollow, similar to a small amphitheater. In the middle of a smooth platform a strange company played pins. All the players were dressed in the same way as the
old man, and reminded Ripoo of the picture of the Flemish artist who hung in the living room of the village pastor. Although they were entertained, their faces kept a stern expression. Everyone was silent, and only the sound of footsteps broke the silence. The old man began to pour the vodka into large cups and showed Ripa that they should be played by the player. They drank and went back to the game. Rip also could not resist and drank several cups of vodka. His head was clouded and he fell asleep. Rip also could not resist and drank several cups of vodka. His head was clouded and he fell asleep. Rip also could not resist and drank several cups of vodka. His head was clouded and he fell asleep.
Rip woke up on the same hillock, from which, for the first time, he noticed the old man. It was morning. He began to look for a gun, but instead of a new shotgun he found next to some old, rust-eaten samopal. Rip thought that the players had played a cruel joke with him and, after drinking vodka, changed his gun, clicked the dog, But she disappeared. Then Rip decided to visit yesterday’s place of fun and demand from
the players a gun and a dog. Rising to his feet, he felt an ache in his joints and noticed that he lacked the former mobility. When he reached the path along which, along with the old man, he climbed up the mountains, there was a mountain stream in its place, and when he hardly reached the place where there was a passage to the amphitheater, steep cliffs appeared on his way. Rip decided to return home. Approaching the village, he met several completely unfamiliar people in strange clothes. The village has also changed – it has grown and become more populous. There was not a single familiar face around, and everyone was looking at Rip in amazement. Drawing a hand along his chin, Rip found that he had grown a long gray beard. When he came to his house, he saw that he had almost collapsed. The house was empty. Rip went to the pub, where the village “philosophers” and slackers usually gathered, but there was a large hotel on the site of the vegetable marrow. Rip looked at the sign and saw that King George III, depicted on it, had also changed beyond recognition: his red coat turned blue, instead of a scepter in his hand was a sword, a crown crowned with a triangular hat, and below it was written “General Washington.” The people crowded in front of the hotel. Everyone listened to the skinny subject, who talked about civil rights, about elections, members of Congress, about the heroes of 1776 and about other things completely unknown to Rip. Rip was asked whether he was a federalist or a democrat. He did not understand anything. The man in the cocked hat asked severely what right Rip had come up to for election with a gun. Rip began to explain that he was a local resident and loyal subject of his king, but in response there were shouts: “Spy! Tory! Hold it!” Rip began humbly proving that he had not planned anything bad and just wanted to see some of the neighbors who usually gathered at the inn. He was asked to give their names. Almost everyone he called died a long time ago. “Does no one here know Rip Van Vincla?” he cried. He was shown to the man standing by the tree. He was like two drops of water like Ripa, as he was, going to the mountains. Rip was completely at a loss: who then himself? And then a young woman with a baby in his arms approached him. Appearance of her seemed familiar to Ripa. He asked her name and who her father was. She told me that her father’s name was Rip Van Winkle, and for twenty years now, he had left the house with a gun on his shoulder and disappeared. Rip asked cautiously where her mother was. It turned out that she had recently died. Rip’s heart sank: he was very much afraid that his wife would give him a shot. He embraced the young woman. “I am your father!” he exclaimed. Everyone looked at him in surprise. Finally, there was an old woman who recognized him, and the villagers believed that they really had Rip Van Winkle, and that his son was standing under the tree of his namesake. Daughter settled the old man’s father at home. Rip told each new hotel guest his story, and soon the whole district already knew it by heart. Someone did not believe Ripa, but the old Dutch settlers still, hearing the thunder from the Kaathsky Mountains, are sure that this Henrik Hudson and his team are playing bowling. And all the local husbands, who are oppressed by their wives, dream of drinking oblivion from the Rip Van Winkle Cup.
