Rip Van Winkle - Washington Irving

 

Rip Van Winkle

 

CARTWRIGHT.	1
[The 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 book-worm.   The result of all these researches was a history of the province during 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 now 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 better employed in weightier labors. He, however, was apt to ride his hobby 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 by many folks, 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.]   75 워싱턴 어빙의 <립 밴 윙클> (3) 2005.05.25 3 - 74 워싱턴 어빙의 <립 밴 윙클> (2) 2005.05.24 0 - 73 워싱턴 어빙의 <립 밴 윙클> (1) 2005.05.23 2 -	2
WHOEVER has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the Kaatskill 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.	3
At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may have descried the light smoke curling up from a village, whose shingle-roofs gleam 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, built of small yellow bricks brought from Holland, having latticed windows and gable fronts, surmounted with weather-cocks.	4
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 hen-pecked 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 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.	5
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.	6
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 or wild pigeons. He would never refuse to assist a neighbor even 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, he found it impossible.	7
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; every thing 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 out-door 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.	8
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 one hand, as a fine lady does her train in bad weather.	9
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 hen-pecked husband.	10
Rip’s sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as much hen-pecked 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 going so often 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 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 broom-stick or ladle, he would fly to the door with yelping precipitation.	11
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 with 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 through 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 that sometimes took place, when by chance an old newspaper fell into their hands from some passing traveller. 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 upon public events some months after they had taken place.	12
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 sundial. 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 to 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.	13
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 naught; 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.	14
Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; and his only 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, whilst I live thou shalt never want a friend to stand by thee!” Wolf would wag his tail, look wistfuly in his master’s face, and if dogs can feel pity I verily believe he reciprocated the sentiment with all his heart.	15
In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, Rip had unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the Kaatskill mountains. He was after his favorite sport of squirrel shooting, and the still solitudes had echoed and re-echoed 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, with 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.	16
On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain glen, wild, 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.	17
As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a distance, hallooing, “Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!” He looked round, 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 his assistance, he hastened down to yield it.	18
On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the singularity of 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 round 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 shoulder 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 amphitheatre, 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 marvelled greatly what could be the object of carrying a keg of liquor up this wild mountain, yet there was something strange and incomprehensible about the unknown, that inspired awe and checked familiarity.	19
On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of wonder presented themselves. on a level spot in the centre was a company of odd-looking personages playing at nine-pins. They were dressed in a quaint outlandish fashion; some wore short doublets, others jerkins, with long knives in their belts, and most of them had enormous breeches, of similar style with that of the guide’s. Their visages, too, were peculiar: one had a large beard, 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 Shaick, the village parson, and which had been brought over from Holland at the time of the settlement.	20
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 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.	21
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-lustre 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.	22
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.	23
On waking, he found himself on the green knoll 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 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!”	24
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 roysterers 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 and shouted his name, but all in vain; the echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog was to be seen.	25
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 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 grapevines that twisted their coils or tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a kind of network in his path.	26
At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through the cliffs to the amphitheatre; 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.	27
As he approached the village he met a number of people, but none whom he knew, which somewhat surprised him, for he had thought 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!	28
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, not one of which he recognized for an old acquaintance, 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—every thing was strange. His mind now misgave him; he began to doubt 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 Kaatskill 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!”	29
It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his own house, which he approached with silent awe, expecting every moment to hear the 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!”	30
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 rang for a moment with his voice, and then all again was silence.	31
He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the 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 that 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 night-cap, 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 singularly metamorphosed. The red coat was changed for one of blue and buff, a sword was held in the hand instead of a sceptre, the head was decorated with a cocked hat, and underneath was painted in large characters, GENERAL WASHINGTON.	32
There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none that 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—elections—members of congress—liberty—Bunker’s Hill—heroes of seventy-six—and other words, which were a perfect Babylonish jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle.	33
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 round him, eyeing 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!”	34
Here a general shout burst from the by-standers—“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.	35
“Well—who are they?—name them.”	36
Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, “Where’s Nicholas Vedder?”	37
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 church-yard that used to tell all about him, but that’s rotten and gone too.”	38
“Where’s Brom Dutcher?”	39
“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 Antony’s Nose. I don’t know—he never came back again.”	40
“Where’s Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?”	41
“He went off to the wars too, was a great militia general, and is now in congress.”	42
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?”	43
“Oh, Rip Van Winkle!” exclaimed two or three, “Oh, to be sure! that’s Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the tree.”	44
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?	45
“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 every thing’s changed, and I’m changed, and I can’t tell what’s my name, or who I am!”	46
The by-standers 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.	47
“Judith Gardenier.”	48
“And your father’s name?”	49
“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.”	50
Rip had but one question more to ask; but he put it with a faltering voice:	51
“Where’s your mother?”	52
“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.”	53
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?”	54
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?”	55
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 were 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.	56
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 Kaatskill 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 nine-pins in a hollow of the mountain; and that he himself had heard, one summer afternoon, the sound of their balls, like distant peals of thunder.	57
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.	58
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.	59
Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that happy age when a man can be idle 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 the Third, he was now a free citizen of the United States. Rip, in fact, was no politician; the changes of 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.	60
He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived at Mr. 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 that 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 thunderstorm of a summer afternoon about the Kaatskill, but they say Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their game of nine-pins; and it is a common wish of all hen-pecked 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.	61
NOTE. The foregoing Tale, one would suspect, had been suggested to Mr. Knickerbocker by a little German superstition about the Emperor Frederick der Rothbart, and the Kyffhäuser mountain: the subjoined note, however, which he had appended to the tale, shows that it is an absolute fact, narrated with his usual fidelity:   “The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible to many, but nevertheless I give it my full belief, for I know the vicinity of our old Dutch settlements to have been very subject to marvellous events and appearances. Indeed, I have heard many stranger stories than this, in the villages along the Hudson; all of which were too well authenticated to admit of a doubt. I have even talked with Rip Van Winkle myself who, when last I saw him, was a very venerable old man, and so perfectly rational and consistent on every other point, that I think no conscientious person could refuse to take this into the bargain; nay, I have seen a certificate on the subject taken before a country justice and signed with a cross, in the justice’s own handwriting. The story, therefore, is beyond the possibility of doubt. D. K.”	62
POSTSCRIPT. The following are travelling notes from a memorandum-book of Mr. Knickerbocker:   The Kaatsberg, or Catskill mountains, have always been a region full of fable. The Indians considered them the abode of spirits, who influenced the weather, spreading sunshine or clouds over the landscape, and sending good or bad hunting seasons. They were ruled by an old squaw spirit, said to be their mother. She dwelt on the highest peak of the Catskills, and had charge of the doors of day and night to open and shut them at the proper hour. She hung up the new moons in the skies, and cut up the old ones into stars. In times of drought, if properly propitiated, she would spin light summer clouds out of cobwebs and morning dew, and send them off from the crest of the mountain, flake after flake, like flakes of carded cotton, to float in the air; until, dissolved by the heat of the sun, they would fall in gentle showers, causing the grass to spring, the fruits to ripen, and the corn to grow an inch an hour. If displeased, however, she would brew up clouds black as ink, sitting in the midst of them like a bottle-bellied spider in the midst of its web; and when these clouds broke, woe betide the valleys!   In old times, say the Indian traditions, there was a kind of Manitou or Spirit, who kept about the wildest recesses of the Catskill Mountains, and took a mischievous pleasure in wreaking all kinds of evils and vexations upon the red men. Sometimes he would assume the form of a bear, a panther, or a deer, lead the bewildered hunter a weary chase through tangled forests and among ragged rocks; and then spring off with a loud ho! ho! leaving him aghast on the brink of a beetling precipice or raging torrent.   The favorite abode of this Manitou is still shown. It is a great rock or cliff on the loneliest part of the mountains, and, from the flowering vines which clamber about it, and the wild flowers which abound in its neighborhood, is known by the name of the Garden Rock. Near the foot of it is a small lake, the haunt of the solitary bittern, with water-snakes basking in the sun on the leaves of the pond-lilies which lie on the surface. This place was held in great awe by the Indians, insomuch that the boldest hunter would not pursue his game within its precincts. once upon a time, however, a hunter who had lost his way, penetrated to the garden rock, where he beheld a number of gourds placed in the crotches of trees. one of these he seized and made off with it, but in the hurry of his retreat he let it fall among the rocks, when a great stream gushed forth, which washed him away and swept him down precipices, where he was dashed to pieces, and the stream made its way to the Hudson, and continues to flow to the present day; being the identical stream known by the name of the Kaaters-kill.

 

워싱턴 어빙[Washington Irving]

출생	1783. 4. 3, 미국 뉴욕 시
사망	1859. 11. 28, 뉴욕 태리타운
국적	미국

[요약 ]

 

미국의 작가.

목차

펼치기

'미국 최초의 단편소설 작가'로 불리며, 문학적으로 가장 성공한 작품은 〈스케치 북 The Sketch Book of Geoffery Crayon, Great〉이다.

엄격한 장로교도인 아버지와 자애로운 성공회 신자인 어머니 사이의 11자녀 중 막내로 태어난 어빙은 허약했으나 여유있는 분위기 속에서 사랑을 독차지하며 자랐다.

어빙은 아버지가 형들에게 요구한 대학진학의 의무를 면제받았으나, 조시아의 오그던 호프먼의 사무실에서 주기적으로 법률을 공부했다. 호프먼의 아름다운 딸 마틸다는 그의 첫사랑의 연인이었다. 1802~03년 피터 어빙이 발행하는 신문 〈모닝 크로니클 Morning Chronicle〉에 조너선 올드스타일이라는 필명으로 기발한 풍자문을 썼다. 허드슨 강을 따라 여러 차례 여행했으며, 요양차 캐나다에도 가고, 1804~06년에는 유럽을 두루 여행했다. 여행에서 돌아온 뒤 1806년말 변호사 시험에 합격하여 법조계로 나갔다. 그러나 1807~08년 그는 변호사 일보다 형 윌리엄과 제임스 K. 폴딩과 함께 〈잡문 Salmagundi〉이라는 제목의 평론 20편을 정기적으로 발표하는 일에 더 열중했다.

당대 사회의 과도기적 측면을 주로 다룬 이 평론들은 사회환경에 대한 지표로서 중요성을 지닌다.

〈뉴욕의 역사 History of New York…… by Diedrich Knickerbocker〉(1809)는 뉴욕의 네덜란드인 정권에 대한 해학적 역사서로서, 창세기부터 당대까지의 세계를 짐짓 현학적으로 설명한 서문이 붙어 있다. 1809년 4월 마틸다 호프먼의 갑작스런 죽음으로 슬픔에 잠겨 한때 이 책의 집필을 중단하기도 했다.

1811년 워싱턴 D. C. 라는 더 넓고 새로운 곳으로 무대를 옮겨 어빙 형제들이 차린 기계설비 수입회사의 로비스트로 나섰으나, 몇 년 동안 그의 삶은 목적없이 떠도는 듯했다. 미국판 토머스 캠벨의 시집을 준비했고, 〈애널렉틱 매거진 Analectic Magazine〉을 편집했으며, 1812년 전쟁중에는 참모 대령의 직책을 맡았다. 1815년 형들의 회사 이권을 도모하기 위해 리버풀에 갔으나, 이러한 노력에도 불구하고 회사는 파산했다. 런던에서의 문학적 교제는 나름대로 결실을 맺어, 월터 스콧 경으로부터 다시 글을 써보라는 격려를 받았다.

그결과 나온 작품이 풍자와 기이한 착상, 사실과 허구, 구세계와 신세계가 혼합된 〈스케치 북〉(1819~20)이다. 여기에 실린 30여 편의 글 가운데 근대 단편소설의 효시로 불리는 〈슬리피 할로의 전설 The Legend of Sleepy Hollow〉·〈립 밴 윙클 Rip Van Winkle〉·〈유령신랑 The Spectre Bridegroom〉 등이 있다.

이 책이 대성공을 거두자 어빙은 글을 쓰는 것만으로도 생계를 유지할 수 있겠다는 자신을 얻었다. 1822년 〈스케치 북〉의 속편인 〈브레이스브리지 홀 Bracebridge Hall〉을 발표했다. 독일·오스트리아·프랑스·스페인·영국을 여행하고 그뒤 미국 각지를 돌아보았다.

1826년초 그는 알렉산더 H. 에버릿의 초청을 받아들여 스페인 주재 미국 공사관의 일원이 되었다.

그곳에서 〈콜럼버스 Columbus〉(1828)·〈콜럼버스의 일행들 The Companions of Columbus〉(1831)을 썼으며, 무어인의 전설에 매료되어 〈그라나다의 정복 Conquest of Granada〉(1829), 〈스케치 북〉의 스페인판이라 할 수 있는 〈알람브라 궁전 The Alhambra〉(1832)을 썼다. 17년의 외국생활을 마치고 1832년 뉴욕으로 돌아온 어빙은 환대를 받았다. 서부를 여행한 뒤 〈대평원 여행 A Tour of the Prairies〉(1835)·〈애스토리어 Astoria〉(1836)·〈보너빌 대위의 모험 The Adventures of Captain Bonneville〉(1837)을 잇따라 발표했다.

스페인 주재 공사로 지낸 4년간을 제외하고는 여생을 줄곧 허드슨 강변 태리타운에 있는 자택 '서니사이드'에서 집필에 몰두하며 지냈다.

 

* 다음백과 - 어빙 [Washington Irving]

 

「립 밴 윙클」(Rip Van Winkle)

 

   뉴욕의 허드슨 강을 거슬러 항해하여 본 사람은 그 누구라도 카아츠킬 산맥을 반드시 기억하게 된다. 애팔래치아 산맥에서 분리된 하나의 지맥으로 아득히 강 서쪽에 멋있게 솟아 자랑스럽게 주변의 지역으로 굽어져 있다. 이곳의 산맥들은 계절에 따라, 날씨에 따라, 여하간 항상 자신들의 신비로운 자태와 색채의 변화를 보이므로 모든 지혜로운 부인들의 청우계로 여겼다. 그 형상은 맑고 평온한 날씨에는 푸른빛과 자주색을 띠고 맑은 저녁 하늘 위에 선명한 윤곽을 그려낸다. 이런 맑은 날씨의 산맥 봉우리들은 저무는 노을의 광선을  받으면 마치 어떤 영광스런 왕관처럼 찬란하게 빛나기도 한다.

  이 기슭에는 뉴욕의 초창기에 이주해 온 네덜란드인들이 세운 마을이 있었다. 그리고 거기에는 불과 몇 년 전까지만도 그 이주 당시 거주민의 가옥들이 몇 채 남아 있었다. 이 마을에 립 밴 윙클(Rip Van Winkle)이라는 소박하고 착한 사람이 살고 있었다. 그는 용맹한 기사도로 유명한 반 윙클가의 후손이었으나 용맹한 기풍과는 거리가 먼 소박한 사람이었고 부인에게는 꼼짝 못 하는 공처가 남편이기도 했다. 특히 아내의 일상적인 잔소리를 참는 인내와 참을성은 어느 누구에게나 호감을 갖게 하는 온순함과 겸손함을 갖게 해주었다. 그러므로 그는 동네의 모든 부인과 아이들에게는 큰 인기가 있었다.

   그는 어떤 힘든 일이라도 이웃을 돕는 일이라면 거절하지 않고 기꺼이 했으며, 특히 온 마을이 하는 일은 언제나 맨 앞장을 섰다. 그러므로 동네 아이들도 립이 나타나면 환성을 지르며 기뻐했고 그는 아이들과 같이 놀아주고, 연날리기와 구슬치기를 가르쳐 주었으며, 아이들의 장난감을 만들어 주기도 하고, 심지어는 인디언에 관한 이야기와 유령이나 마귀할멈 이야기를 해주곤 하였다. 또한 그들 부부싸움이 동네 여인네 사이에서 입방아에 오르게 되면 사람들은 언제나 립의 편을 들고 반 윙클 부인을 비난하곤 했던 것이다.

  하지만 립의 성격 중 가장 큰 결점은 부지런함이나 참을성이 부족하지 않으면서도 이익이 생기는 일은 싫어하고 견뎌 내지를 못하는 것이다. 또한 립은 가장으로서도 형편없는 무능자이었다. 남의 밭은 돌보아 주어도 막상 자신의 밭은 엉망이어서, 울타리는 늘 여기저기 쓰러져 있고, 암소는 어디론가 나가서 길을 잃어버리거나 양배추 밭을 짓밟거나 했고, 밭에는 어떤 다른 작물보다도 쓸데없는 잡초만이 무성하였다. 그나마 그가 무슨 일을 하려고 하면 꼭 때맞춰 비가 내리곤 하였다.

  그의 자식들은 누더기 같은 불쌍한 차림에 제멋대로 자라나 마치 고아와  다를 바가 없었다. 그의 아내는 날마다 쉴 새 없이 잔소리를 쏘아댔으나 그는 어깨를 으쓱 움직이고 머리를 흔들고 물끄러미 하늘을 향하곤 아무 말도 하지 않았다. 그러므로 집에서 립을 따르는 추종자로는 유일한 그의 애견 울프(Wolf)뿐이었는데 이놈은 모든 면에서 용맹스러운 훌륭한 개였으나 안주인 앞에서는 기가 푹 죽어서 조금이라도 그녀가 무엇을 쳐들 기세를 보이면 깽깽거리며 문쪽으로 달아나곤 했다.  오랜 동안 립이 집에서 쫓겨나 있을 때에는  그는 항상 그 마을의 현인이며 철학자, 기타 박학한 사람이 모이는 일종의 모임에 참석함으로써 스스로를 달래곤 했다.

  이 모임은 작은 여관 앞 벤치에서 이루어졌는데 데릭 반 범멜(Derrick Van Bummel)교장 선생과 여관 주인이며 마을 장로인 니콜라스 베더(Nicholas Vedder)에 의하여 주도되어졌다. 그러나 립의 아내가 이러한 모임의 참여를   용납할 여자가 아니였다. 갑자기 모임에 뛰어들어서는 거기 참석한 모든 이에게 멋대로 욕설을 퍼부었다. 모임의 가장 엄숙한 인물인 니콜라스 베더까지도 이 무서운 아내의 독설에는 속수무책이었다. 그녀는 그에게 남편을 부추겨   게으름뱅이 버릇을 길러 주었다고 고래고래 소리쳤다. 이러한 사건에 의하여 립은 자신이 설 자리를 잃어버리고는 거의 절망 상태에 빠져서는 단지 엽총을 들고 사랑하는 개 울프와 함께 숲속을 사냥하며 배회하는 데 대부분의 시간을 보내게 되었다.

   화창한 어느 가을날 립은 카이츠킬 산맥의 가장 높은 봉우리에 올라 피곤한 몸을 쉬고 있었다. 울창한 나무들 사이로 멀리까지 이어진 낮은 곳을 내려다 볼 수 있었고 아득히 아래쪽에는 당당하게 흐르는 허드슨 강이 보였다. 강은 수면에 자줏빛 구름의 영상이나 떠도는 작은 배의 돛 그림자를 여기저기 거울 같은 수면에 담고 장엄한 자태로 그 모습을 감추어 갔다.   뒤돌아보면 깊은 협곡으로 그 골짜기의 바닥은 가파른 절벽에서 떨어진 바위 조각들로 수북이 쌓인 채 석양의 빛도 거의 닿지 못하고 있었다. 립은 얼마 동안 이러한 아름다운 경치를 즐기고 있다가 저녁 어스름이 내려서야 정신을 차리고 아내의 욕설을 떠올리며 산을 내려가기 시작했다.

  그 순간 어디선가 그의 이름을 부르는 소리가 들렸다. 희미하게 들리는 소리여서 확인을 할 수는 없었지만 혹시 도움을 청하는 소리일지도 모른다는 생각에 립은 서둘러 그 소리의 주인에게 다가갔다. 그 소리의 주인은 작은 키에  어깨는 딱 벌어진 노인으로, 숱이 많은 머리에 수염이 희끗희끗 자란 기괴한 모습을 하고 있었다. 그의 차림새는 옛날 네덜란드풍의 가죽천으로 만든 조기를 허리까지 닿게 조여 입고 불룩한 바지에 양옆에 장식 단추가 나란히 한 줄로 달려 있고 양 무릎에는 리본이 달려 있었다. 그의 등에는 술통을 지고 있었다. 그 이상한 사람이 왜 술통을 지고 가는지 의아했지만 그를 도와 주기 위해립은  그의 술통을 번갈아 메며 계곡의 좁은 산길을 함께 올라갔다.

  그들은 계속 산을 올라가 마침내 원형극장 같은 곳에 이르렀다. 그 곳에는 이상한 모습의 사람들이 나인핀스(ninepins)놀이를 하고 있었다. 그들은 이색적인 묘한 옷을 입고 있었는데 어떤 이는 짧은 웃옷을 입었고 어떤 이는 조끼를 입고서 허리에는 단검을 꽂았으며 나머지 대부분은 앞의 안내자같이 통이 큰 바지를 입고 있었다.

    그들은 즐거운 게임을 하면서도 너무나 엄숙한 표정을 짓고 있었고, 다만  침묵을 깨뜨리는 것은 나인핀스의 공구르는 소리뿐이었다. 그 소리는 천둥처럼 산에 메아리쳤다. 립이 동행했던 노인과 함께 그들에게 다가서자 그들은 갑자기 놀이를 멈추고는 전혀 움직이지 않는 조상 같은 눈초리로 립을 노려보았다. 그 얼굴 표정이 너무 괴상하고 흐리멍텅해서 립은 가슴이 내려앉고 온 몸이 떨렸다. 이때 동행한 노인의 지시에 따라 립은 벌벌 떨면서 이리저리 술시중을 들었다. 조금씩 두려움이 사라지자 자신도 그 술을 조금 마셔 보았다. 립은  원래 술을 좋아하는 사람인지라 거듭 술을 들이키게 되었다. 마침내 그의 정신은 몽롱해졌고 차츰 몸을 가누지 못하더니 깊은 잠에 빠져 버렸다.

  어느 정도의 시간이 흘렀는지 알 수는 없지만 잠을 깨어 보니 그는 노인을  처음 만났던 푸른 언덕 위에 있었으며  햇살이 빛나는 아침이었다. 새들이 덤불 속에서 지저귀고 있었다. 그는 잠들기 전의 일들을 기억해 보려 했다. 그리고 자기가 갖고 왔던 엽총을 찾기 위해 주위를 두리번거리며 살폈다. 그러자 그의 눈에 띄는 것은 잘 기름칠되고 번쩍거리던 자신의 총이 아니고 녹투성이에 개머리판은 벌레 먹고 방아쇠가 떨어져 나간 아주 낡은 총만이 있었다.   그가 휘파람을 불어 보았지만 울프도 나타나지 않았고 공허한 메아리만 되받아올 뿐 개의 모습은 전혀 찾아볼 수 없었다. 다시 한 번 크게 휘파람을 불었으나 여전히 공허한 메아리뿐 울프는 돌아오지 않았다.

   어젯밤의 그 놀음 장소에 있던 사람들이 자신에게 술을 마시게 한 후에 자신의 총을 바꿔 갔다고 생각하여 다시 기억을 더듬어 원형극장 같은 장소를 찾아가기 시작했다. 그러나 거기에는 그런 통로의 흔적이 없었다. 한참을 방황하던 끝에 그는 협곡이 절벽 사이로 빠져 그 장소로 통하던 비슷한 곳에 다다랐다. 그러나 큰 바위들이 높고 넘지 못할 만큼 높은 벽을 이루고 있었으며 그 위로는 큰 폭포를 이루고 있으며 이 물이 주위의 무성한 숲 그늘에 의해서 생긴 어두운 넓고 깊은 연못으로 흘러들고 있었다.  립은 어찌할 바를 몰랐다. 이제 아침나절도 거의 지나갔기에 립은 몹시 허기가 졌다.

 잃어버린 개와 총, 그리고 아내의 잔소리에 대한 걱정이 되었지만 립은 집 쪽으로 발걸음을 돌렸다. 마을에 가까워지면서 많은 사람들을 만났지만 낯익은 얼굴은 단 한 명도 없었다. 그들의 옷차림도 이제껏 보아 온 것과는 다른 것들이었다. 립이 매우 놀랐듯이 그들 또한 립을 보면서 무척 놀란 표정을 지었다. 무엇보다도 그의 턱수염이 엄청나게 자라 있었던 것이다. 마을에 들어서자   자주 드나들던 친숙한 집들은 보이지 않고 모두 처음 보는 이름의 문패만이 눈에 들어왔다.

 카이츠킬 산맥이 솟아 있고 허드슨 강이 흐르는 언덕과 계곡들이 있는 분명 고향의 땅이지만 무언가 놀라운 변화가 일어난 것이다. 낯선 아이들의 무리가 그의 뒤를 따라다니며 놀려 댔고 개 또한 아는 놈이 하나 없이 왕왕 짖어 댔다. 다소 힘들게 자기 집을 찾았고 부인의 매서운 소리를 생각하고는 긴장하여 조심조심 집으로 다가갔다. 그러나 지붕은 내려앉고 창문은 부서진, 거의 폐허 가 되어 버린 상태의 집을 발견하였다.

 놀라움 속에 급히 밖으로 뛰어나가 과거에 회합이 이루어졌던 마을 여관으로 가보았다. 그곳은 ‘유니언 호텔, 조나단 둘리들(Jonathan Doolittle)경영’이라고 쓰여진 거대한 목조건물이 서 있을 뿐 전의 그 모습은 사라져 있었다. 간판 위에는 조지 왕의 초상화 대신 화려한 색깔의 장군 복장에 긴 칼을 쥐고 있는 ‘워싱턴 장군’이라고 쓰여진 인물의 그림이 있었다.

   입구 주변에는 예전처럼 사람들로 붐비고 있었지만 아는 사람은 하나도 없었다. 또한 사람들 속에서도 예전의 한가로움은 없어지고 바쁘고 부산스럽게 술렁이며 싸우는 말투의 분위기만이 느껴졌다. 갑자기 깡마르고 성깔있어 보이는 한 사나이가가 선전용 삐라를 뿌리면서 시민의 권리, 선거, 자유, 벙커힐 등의 말을 들먹이며 열변을 토하고 있었는데 반 윙클은 전혀 알아들을 수 없는 말들이었다.

  길게 늘어진 긴 회색 수염과 녹슨 총, 희한한 옷차림을 한 립의 뒤를 아이들이 따라 다니며 그를 놀리대자 자연히 사람들의 주의를 끌게 되었으며, 따라서 앞에서 연설을 하던 사람은 그에게 어느 쪽에 투표했는지를 물었다. 그러나 립은 얼빠진 바보처럼 눈만 크게 뜰 뿐 아무런 말도 할 수 없었다. 그러자 립은 신원미상의 인물이 되어 왕당파, 첩자, 도망자 등으로 오해를 받게 되어 한바탕의 소란을 일으킨다. 그는 자신이 아는 사람들의 이름을 대 보았으나 아무도 마을에 남아 있지 않았고 곧 그는 오직 자신만이 이 세상에 홀로 남았다는 것을 알게 되었다. 하룻밤 사이에 엄청난 세월이 흘러간 것이었다. 그는 더 이상 다른 친구에 대해 물을 용기가 나지 않았기에 마지막으로 립 반 윙클 자신에 대해 묻는다. 그러자 여기저기서 어느 한 사람을 가리켰다. 립이 그쪽을 보았을 때 자신이 산에 올라갈 때의 모습과 똑같은 젊은이를 발견하게 되고 극도로 당황하여 소리쳤다.

  순간 이 이상한 사나이를 보려고 젊고 아름다운 여인 한 사람이 군중을 밀치고 나타났다. 그녀는 포동포동하게 살찐 아기를 팔에 안고 있었다. 립은 곧 그녀가 자신의 딸인 주디쓰 가드니어라는 사실을 알고 포옹한다. 그리고 20년 전 자신이 실종되던 날에 울프만이 집으로 돌아왔으며 마누라는 그후 얼마 안 있어 뇌일혈로 죽었음을 듣게 된다.  이를 지켜 보던 모든 사람들이 깜짝 놀라  서 있는데 한 노파가 립을 알아보았다. 립은 잠시동안 20년을 지나가 버리게 한 하룻밤에 대해 이야기를 했다.

  모두들 고개를 흔들며 믿지 못했다. 그래서 이 고장에서 가장 오래 살아왔으며 마을의 놀라운 일이나 전통에 대해 잘 알고 있는 피터 팬더동크(Peter Vanderdonk)영감의 의견을 듣기로 했다. 그는 립을 금방 알아보았으며 립의 이야기를 확증해 주었다. 그 영감의 이야기에 의하면 허드슨 강과 이 지역을 최초로 발견한 헨드릭 허드슨(Hendrick Hudson)이 자신이 탐험선을 타고 선원들과 함께 20년에 한번씩 순시했다는 것이었다. 피터 노인의 선친도 립이 본 것과 같은 것들을 보았다고 말했다고 하였다.

  이제 립은 전처럼 시내를 돌아다니기 시작했으며 옛 습관으로 돌아왔다. 어느 정도 나이에 다다랐기 때문에 이제는 게으름을 피워도 흠이 되지 않았으며  마을에서는 ‘독립전쟁 이전’ 시대의 살아 있는 존재로서 존경을 받았다. 그리고 독립전쟁 등 자신이 잠든 사이에 일어난 역사의 변화에 대해 이해할 수 있게 되었으며 사람들과의 일상적인 대화에도 어울릴 수 있게 되었다.

  그는 아내라는 속박에서 완전히 벗어났는데 이는 영국의 식민통치에서 해방된 것을 상징하는 것이며 이제는 자유로운 신생 국가에서 생활하게 되었음을동시에 상징한다. 그의 말을 믿는 이도 있으며 그의 머리가 어딘가 이상이 있다고 생각하는 사람들도 있었다. 하지만 마을의 공처가들이 아내로 인해 힘들 어 할 때 마음 속에 품게 되는 공통된 소망은 립 반 윙클처럼 술을 한잔 마시고 잠들어서 아내로부터 해방되었으면 하는 것이다.