RipVanWinkle译文
RIP VAN WINKLE
《瑞普· 温克尔》 凡·
主题：1.避世似乎是这篇小说的一个主题。
然而瑞普进山是为了逃避妻子的责骂和唠叨，并 不是为了躲避世间的纷乱。 "他摇摇头，耸耸肩，两眼看天”这就是他妻子责 骂他时的神态。 其实，瑞普能吃苦，有毅力，有善心。但他所不 愿意的是以直接的物质利益为唯一目的的劳动， 而这正是瑞普太太所要求的。在这样的夫妻矛盾 中，在受直接物质利益驱动的劳动和处于勤劳天 性，适合自己又有利于他人的劳动冲突中，我们 可以看出作者对后者的赞扬。
《RIP VAN WINKLE》
《瑞普· · 凡 温克尔》
《瑞普· 温克尔》 凡·
简介：心地善良，乐于助人了一个身着荷兰古 装，形似侏儒的陌生人，由于瑞普善良的本性，于是 帮他提着小桶，随他参加一个聚会。在聚会上，瑞普 和其他人一样不声不响的玩九柱戏的游戏，并喝了他 们提供的一种酒，于是便昏昏睡去，一睡就是20年。 在这20年中美国爆发了革命。瑞普一觉醒来已经是一 个白发苍苍的老人，回到村里，村子发生了巨大的变 化。在村口他遇见了出门迎接的他的老狗，他又得知 妻子已经去世多年，他自己也几乎被人遗忘。女儿已 经嫁为人妇，生儿育女。于是他和女儿住在一起。瑞 普经过一段时间的“磨合”之后，在新环境中继续生 存着，也更惬意，因为他不用再听妻子的嘲讽责骂。
《瑞普· 温克尔》 凡·
2.变革似乎又是一个主题。
然而作者并没有直接描写美国革命，他写的是社 会变革给人们生活带来的影响，以及人们对社会 变革的反应。 当瑞普从山中返回时，不仅周围环静境变了，人 与物关系也变了：原来熟悉的乡亲，不是死了就 是走了，虽然周围依然是熙熙攘攘的人群，却没 人能说得上话，连自己的女儿也要花很大的力气 才能回忆起自己的父亲，人际关系变成了党派与 阵营关系。最后瑞普不得不怀疑起自己的身份来。 由此可见作者对这种变化的讥讽。
瑞普·凡·温克尔Rip-Van-Winkle中英文对照与summary
作者简介：华盛顿·欧文(Washington Irving）（1789—1895)，美国浪漫主义作家，也是一个纯文学作家,他的写作态度是"writing for pleasure and to produce pleasure”。
欧文的代表作有《见闻札记》(Sketch Book）,这是第一部伟大的青少年读物,也是美国本土作家第一部成功的小说.由于欧文对美国文学的伟大贡献,他获得了“美国文学之父"的光荣称号。
这篇短篇小说,《瑞普·凡·温克尔》便是摘自《见闻札记》.Rip Van WinkleA Posthumous Writing of Diedrich KnickerbockerBy Washington Irving（T HE 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。
翻译Rip_Van_Winkle
翻译Rip_Van_WinkleFurther reading and thinking, though they brought this vague inclination into more reasonable bounds, only served to make it more decided. I visited various parts of my own country; and had I been merely a lover of fine scenery, I should have felt little desire to seek elsewhere its gratification, for on no country have the charms of nature been more prodigally lavished. Her mighty lakes, like oceans of liquid silver; her mountains, with their bright aerial tints; her valleys, teeming with wild fertility; her tremendous cataracts, thundering in their solitudes; her boundless plains waving with spontaneous verdure; her broad deep rivers, rolling in solemn silence to the ocean; her trackless forests, where vegetation puts forth all its magnificence; her skies, kindling with the magic of summer clouds and glorious sun-shine;--no, never need an American look beyond his own country for the sublime and beautiful of natural scenery. 尽管更深一层的阅读和思考使这朦胧的意识出现了合理的界限，但也只是令它更加坚定罢了。
瑞普·凡·温克尔Rip_Van_Winkle中英文对照与summary-范本模板
作者简介：华盛顿·欧文（Washington Irving）（1789—1895），美国浪漫主义作家，也是一个纯文学作家，他的写作态度是”writing for pleasure and to produce pleasure"。
欧文的代表作有《见闻札记》（Sketch Book），这是第一部伟大的青少年读物,也是美国本土作家第一部成功的小说。
由于欧文对美国文学的伟大贡献，他获得了“美国文学之父”的光荣称号。
这篇短篇小说，《瑞普·凡·温克尔》便是摘自《见闻札记》.Rip Van WinkleA Posthumous Writing of Diedrich KnickerbockerBy Washington Irving(T HE 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。
功能对等理论下美国小说的翻译与鉴赏——以《瑞普·凡·温克尔》节选为例
功能对等理论下美国小说的翻译与鉴赏——以《瑞普·凡·温克尔》节选为例功能对等理论下美国小说的翻译与鉴赏——以《瑞普·凡·温克尔》节选为例-汉语言文学功能对等理论下美国小说的翻译与鉴赏——以《瑞普·凡·温克尔》节选为例张欣谌莉文摘要：《瑞普·凡·温克尔》（Rip Van Winkle）是美国作家华盛顿·欧文（Washington Irving，1783～1859）创作的著名短篇小说。
这篇小说乡土风味浓郁，充满浪漫主义奇想，流露出作者本人的保守观点，也巧妙暗示了资产阶级革命的局限。
本文通过对《瑞普·凡·温克尔》片段的翻译，探讨功能对等理论在小说翻译中的运用。
关键词：《瑞普·凡·温克尔》翻译功能对等理论一、引言《瑞普·凡·温克尔》（Rip Van Winkle）是美国最早的短篇小说之一，其作者华盛顿·欧文（Washingtonlrving，1783～1859）在美国文学史上被誉为“美国文学之父”。
这篇小说以殖民地时期纽约哈得逊河畔一个山村为背景，描写了贫苦农民瑞普·凡·温克尔的奇特遭遇。
作者以轻快的笔触描绘了当时的自然景色和风俗民情，以及那种悠然自得、远离尘器的山村生活，以巧妙的手法讽刺了当时的资产阶级革命并没给贫苦农民带来什么变化的现实。
要把这样一篇文笔优美、描写细腻、语言生动、幽默夸张的小说译成中文，实非易事。
要将一个作家的风格翻译出来是相当困难的，需要运用适合于原作风格的文学语言，把原作的内容与形式精确地再现出来。
因此译者在对原小说进行翻译时，以功能对等理论为指导，为了达到“最贴近的最自然的对等”，不仅要考虑意义，特别是语用层次上的引申意义，还要注意文体风格，必要时还得进行意义和结构上的调整，只有这样才能在接受语中再现源语功能，使二者达到功能对等。
Rip Van Winkle 译文资料
R i p V a n W i n k l e译文瑞普-凡-温克尔卡兹吉尔出脉位于纽约州哈得逊河西边，山峰高耸人云，俯瞰着四周的山村。
季节更替，阴晴转换，甚至旦夕间的时辰变幻，都会引来山容峰色午姿百态。
所以山区周围的村民只要观看卡兹吉尔山脉就能猜出天气的变化。
就在这些山脉下面，航行者可以看见缕缕青烟从一个古老的荷兰小山村袅袅升起。
瑞普-凡-温克尔就在这个村里。
许多年前，他就住在这里，那时这个国家还发球英国。
瑞普-凡-温克尔是一个朴素单纯，性格温和的家伙。
在荷兰决督统治时期，他的祖先曾英勇地与英国人战斗过。
然而，瑞普的血液里没有多少祖先的军人性格。
我已经说了，他是一个朴素单纯，性格温和的家伙。
此外他还是一个善良的邻居，也是一个在老婆面前唯唯诺诺的丈夫。
由于在家里被老婆管得太严所以他似乎养成了处处与人为善的习惯。
因此，除了他老婆外，大这都对他评价很高。
当然，他在村子里所有的良家妇女中很受欢迎。
每当她们知道了凡-温克尔家吵架，她们总是认定瑞普是对的，而凡-温克尔夫人是错的。
孩子们也一样，瑞普-凡-温克尔一来，他们总是欢叫起来。
他总是望着他们玩耍，为他们做玩具，教他们怎么玩各种游戏，还给他们讲最精彩的故事。
不管他去哪儿，他的四周常常围着一群孩子。
村子里没有哪条狗对他狂吠过。
瑞普-凡-温克尔有一个缺点：什么赚钱的活儿他都不喜欢，甚至是憎恨。
很难理解究竟是什么原因让他不爱劳动。
可他从不拒绝帮助邻居，哪怕是干最粗的活儿，比如帮人家砌石墙。
村里的妇女也常使唤他，让他传信，或做一些她们的丈夫不愿意做的小活计。
换言之，除了自各儿的事情外，别人家的事瑞普都乐意管。
至少家庭责任，收拾农场，他觉得这样的活儿绝对做不来。
事实上，他宣称在他农场上折腾毫无用处，因为那是整个那一带最差的小块地，一无是处。
结果由于他经营不善，失去不少土地，他的小农场比他周围的农场更差了。
他的孩子也到处游荡，他们的可怜样和他的农场一样。
他的儿子小瑞普，和他很像，整天四处晃荡。
ripvanwinkle故事梗概中文
ipvanwinkle故事梗概中文
《瑞普·凡·温克尔》的故事梗概如下：
瑞普·凡·温克尔是一个心地善良、和蔼可亲的人，但他的妻子却总是对他唠叨不休，让他感到厌烦。
一天，为了躲避妻子的唠叨，瑞普带着他的狗到附近的林子里去打猎，结果在路上遇到了一个奇怪的人，那人请他喝了一种神奇的酒，瑞普喝了之后就昏倒在地。
当瑞普醒来时，他发现已经过去了二十年，他的狗已经死了，而他的家乡也发生了很大的变化。
他回到家后，发现他的妻子已经去世，他的女儿也已经嫁人并有了孩子。
瑞普对这些变化感到非常惊讶，但他也很快适应了新的生活，并成为了一个受人尊敬的老人。
最后，瑞普又遇到了那个请他喝酒的人，那人告诉他，他喝的是一种可以让人长眠二十年的酒。
瑞普听后感到非常惊讶，但他也明白了时间的珍贵，决定好好珍惜剩下的时光。
这个故事通过瑞普的经历，告诉人们要珍惜时间，不要浪费生命。
瑞普·凡·温克尔Rip_Van_Winkle中英文对照与summary
作者简介：华盛顿·欧文（Washington Irving）（1789-1895）, 美国浪漫主义作家，也是一个纯文学作家，他的写作态度是"writing for pleasure and to produce pleasure"。
欧文的代表作有《见闻札记》（Sketch Book），这是第一部伟大的青少年读物，也是美国本土作家第一部成功的小说。
由于欧文对美国文学的伟大贡献，他获得了“美国文学之父”的光荣称号。
这篇短篇小说，《瑞普·凡·温克尔》便是摘自《见闻札记》。
Rip Van WinkleA Posthumous Writing of Diedrich KnickerbockerBy Washington Irving(T HE 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 bookworm.The result of all these researches was a history of the province duringthe 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 how 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 much better employed in weightier labors. He, however, was apt to ride his hobby in 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 among many folk 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.)By Woden, God of Saxons,From whence comes Wensday, that isWodensday,Truth is a thing that ever I will keepUnto thylke day in which I creep intoMy sepulchre—C ARTWRIGHT.Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the Catskill 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.At the foot of these fairy mountains the voyager may have descried the light smoke curling up from a village whose shingle roofs gleamamong 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, with lattice windows, gable fronts surmounted with weathercocks, and built of small yellow bricks brought from Holland.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, henpecked 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 acurtain 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.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.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 squirrelsor wild pigeons. He would never even refuse to assist a neighbor 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, it was impossible.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; everything 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 outdoor 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.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 withone hand, as a fine lady does her train in bad weather.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 henpecked husband.Rip’s sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as much henpecked 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 so often going 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 theever-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 broomstick or ladle would fly to the door with yelping precipitation.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 by 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, of 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 which sometimes took place, when by chance an old newspaper fell into their hands, from some passing traveler. 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 deliberateupon public events some months after they had taken place.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 sun-dial. 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 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.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 nought; 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.Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; and his onlyalternative, 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, while I live thou shalt never want a friend to stand by thee!”Wolf would wag his tail, look wistfully in his master’s face, and if dogs can feel pity, I verily believe he reciprocated the sentiment with all his heart.In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, Rip had unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the Catskill Mountains. He was after his favorite sport of squirrel shooting, and the still solitudes had echoed and reëchoed 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, 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.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.As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a distance, hallooing, “Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!”He looked around, 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 assistance, he hastened down to yield it.On nearer approach, he was still more surprised at the singularity ofthe 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 around 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 shoulders 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 amphitheater, 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 marveled greatly what could be the object of carrying a keg of liquor up this wild mountain, yet there was something strange andincomprehensible about the unknown that inspired awe and checked familiarity.On entering the amphitheater, new objects of wonder presented themselves. On a level spot in the center was a company of odd-looking personages playing at ninepins. They were dressed in a quaint, outlandish fashion: some wore short doublets, others jerkins, with long knives in their belts, and most had enormous breeches, of similar style with that of the guide’s. Their visages, too, were peculiar: one had a large head, 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 Schaick, the village parson, and which had been brought over from Holland at the time of the settlement.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 mostmelancholy 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.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-luster 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.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.On awaking, he found himself on the green knoll from 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 puremountain 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?”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 roysters 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, shouted his name, but all in vain; the echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog was to be seen.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 wasnow 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 grape vines that twisted their coils and tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a kind of network in his path.At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through the cliffs to the amphitheater; 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.As he approached the village, he met a number of people, but none whom he knew, which somewhat surprised him, for he had thoughthimself 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!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, none of which he recognized for his old acquaintances, 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—everything was strange. His mind now began to misgive him; he doubted 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 Catskill 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!”It was with some difficulty he found the way to his own house, which he approached with silent awe, expecting every moment to hear theshrill 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!”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 rung for a moment with his voice, and then all again was silence.He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the little 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 which 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 nightcap, 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 wassingularly metamorphosed. The red coat was changed for one of blue and buff, a sword was stuck in the hand instead of a scepter, the head was decorated with a cocked hat, and underneath was painted in large characters, G ENERAL W ASHINGTON.There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none whom 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—election—members of Congress—liberty—Bunker’s Hill—heroes of ’76—and other words, that were a perfect Babylonish jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle.The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled beard, his rusty fowling piece, his uncouth dress, and the army of women and children that had gathered 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 raising 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 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.“Well—who are they?—name them.”Rip bethought himself a moment, and then inquired, “Where’s Nicholas Vedder?”。
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瑞普-凡-温克尔卡兹吉尔出脉位于纽约州哈得逊河西边，山峰高耸人云，俯瞰着四周的山村。
季节更替，阴晴转换，甚至旦夕间的时辰变幻，都会引来山容峰色午姿百态。
所以山区周围的村民只要观看卡兹吉尔山脉就能猜出天气的变化。
就在这些山脉下面，航行者可以看见缕缕青烟从一个古老的荷兰小山村袅袅升起。
瑞普-凡-温克尔就在这个村里。
许多年前，他就住在这里，那时这个国家还发球英国。
瑞普-凡-温克尔是一个朴素单纯，性格温和的家伙。
在荷兰决督统治时期，他的祖先曾英勇地与英国人战斗过。
然而，瑞普的血液里没有多少祖先的军人性格。
我已经说了，他是一个朴素单纯，性格温和的家伙。
此外他还是一个善良的邻居，也是一个在老婆面前唯唯诺诺的丈夫。
由于在家里被老婆管得太严所以他似乎养成了处处与人为善的习惯。
因此，除了他老婆外，大这都对他评价很高。
当然，他在村子里所有的良家妇女中很受欢迎。
每当她们知道了凡-温克尔家吵架，她们总是认定瑞普是对的，而凡-温克尔夫人是错的。
孩子们也一样，瑞普-凡-温克尔一来，他们总是欢叫起来。
他总是望着他们玩耍，为他们做玩具，教他们怎么玩各种游戏，还给他们讲最精彩的故事。
不管他去哪儿，他的四周常常围着一群孩子。
村子里没有哪条狗对他狂吠过。
瑞普-凡-温克尔有一个缺点：什么赚钱的活儿他都不喜欢，甚至是憎恨。
很难理解究竟是什么原因让他不爱劳动。
可他从不拒绝帮助邻居，哪怕是干最粗的活儿，比如帮人家砌石墙。
村里的妇女也常使唤他，让他传信，或做一些她们的丈夫不愿意做的小活计。
换言之，除了自各儿的事情外，别人家的事瑞普都乐意管。
至少家庭责任，收拾农场，他觉得这样的活儿绝对做不来。
事实上，他宣称在他农场上折腾毫无用处，因为那是整个那一带最差的小块地，一无是处。
结果由于他经营不善，失去不少土地，他的小农场比他周围的农场更差了。
他的孩子也到处游荡，他们的可怜样和他的农场一样。
他的儿子小瑞普，和他很像，整天四处晃荡。
他穿着一条他父亲的旧裤子，不得不用一只手提着，免得掉了下来。
然而，瑞普-凡-温克尔是那种有福分的人。
他一副傻样，与世无争，待人接物从容快乐；他吃好吃差无所谓，只要得来全不费工夫。
如果由着他的性子，他会非常心安理得地虚度一生。
可是他老婆在他耳朵边不停地数落他，说他游手好闲，对家庭漠不关心，这个家快给他毁了。
从早到晚，她唠叨个没完。
他说的每句话，做的每件事，定公招徕她一顿臭骂。
瑞普对付他那长舌老婆，倒是有个办法，这个办法用多了。
已经成了一个习惯。
他只是把头耷拉在肩膀上，眼望天空，一言不发。
然而，这又引来老婆的一阵发火。
这么一来，瑞普无事可做，只有离开家。
在家里，瑞普唯一的朋友就是他的狗，名叫沃尔夫。
沃尔夫常常是凡-温克尔太太的出气筒，因为她把他们看做是游手好闲的难兄难弟，有时她甚至指责说：瑞普之所以吊儿郎当都是这条狗的错。
不错，沃外交活动夫在树林里像条狗，很勇敢，可是再勇敢的狗也经不住一个长舌妇的数落。
每当沃尔夫走进家门，他总是耷拉着脑袋，尾巴垂掉在地上或夹在两腿间。
他在屋里溜达，一脸心虚的样子，时刻从眼角观察着凡-温克尔太太，一看到她有一丝不快的迹象，便拨腿开溜。
瑞普-凡-温克尔结婚后，随着岁月的推移，他的麻烦也越来越多。
有很长一段时间，当凡-温克尔太太的唠叨迫使他出门时，他总是和其他闲人坐在一块儿安慰自己。
他和这些闲人常坐在村里的小酒馆前面，酒馆的名字就是因英王乔治三世下的肖像而起的。
在漫长的夏天里，他们常常坐在树要荫下，没完没了地讲述那些让人打盹的无聊故事。
有时候，他们中有人碰巧发现一过路的游客扔下来的旧报纸，这时他们会非常认真地听报纸上的容，因为德瑞克-凡-巴梅尔会读给他们听（德瑞克-凡-巴梅尔是村里的小学教师，很有学问，词典里最长的词也难不倒他）。
接着他们会露出很有学问的样子讨论几个月前发生的新闻。
众人发表的看法完全由尼古拉斯德维达裁决，他是村里岁数最大的老人，是酒馆的主人。
他从早到晚坐在门口，只有为了避开太阳要蹲在大树树荫下面的时候，他才挪一下位置。
的确，他很少开口讲话，而是不停地抽着烟斗，但是他的崇拜者们最了解他，他们知道怎么才能让他就某个话题发表他的高见。
要是读的什么容或讲的什么话让他不开心，他就会狠狠地抽着烟斗；要是他高兴起来，他会慢慢而静静地抽烟。
有时候，他从嘴里拿开烟斗，让烟雾在鼻子上方萦绕，点头以示同意大家正在讨论的容。
可是就连这帮能安慰瑞普的人也最终被迫离开倒霉的瑞普。
他老婆突然破门而入，直接冲着谈笑正欢的俱乐部，将俱乐部的成员骂得一文不值。
甚至了不起的尼古拉斯-维达也难逃这位凶悍的泼妇的一顿肆意辱骂。
她指着他的鼻子责骂说，她丈夫游手好闲他要负主要责任。
可怜的瑞普因此几乎被逼上了绝路。
他唯一能逃避的办法就是拿着猎枪到深山老林去。
在山林里，他有时和他忠实的狗一起坐在树下，沃尔夫是他同病相怜的伙伴。
“可怜的沃尔夫，”他常这么对他说，“你的日子也不好过，不过别害怕。
只要我活着，总有一个朋友和你站在一边！”沃尔夫听罢总是摇摆着尾巴，伤心地望着他的主人。
如果狗能有怜悯之心，我坚信他会真心实意地同情瑞普的。
在某个秋天就这样长时间地漫步后，瑞普发现自己爬到了卡兹吉尔山脉最大的山峰。
他专心于他喜爱的消遣---打猎，枪声划破了山林荒凉的宁静。
他累得气喘吁吁，到了傍晚，便在悬崖上一个长满绿草的小土丘上躺了下来。
有一会儿，他躺在地上观看着山景。
夜色快要降临；君山开始在山谷投下长长的蓝色影子。
他知道他没到村里，天早就黑了；一想到凡-温克尔太太生气的脸，他就深深在叹气。
就在他准备下山时，他突然听到远处有人喊他，“瑞普-凡-温克尔！瑞普-凡-温克尔！”他看了看周围，除了一只大鸟孤单地飞越大山外，什么也没看到。
他判断这声音只是他的想象。
他转身准备下山，他又听到那喊叫声在寂静的夜空回荡；“瑞普-凡-温克尔！” 时他的狗感到毛骨悚然，他跑到主人身边，恐怖地望着山谷。
瑞普心里心感到害怕，不安地朝着同一方向看去。
他看到了一个奇怪的身影在岩石上攀登着，背上驮着什么沉甸甸的东西。
瑞普感到惊讶；在这样荒无人烟的地方竟然看到有人。
可是一想到可能是哪一个需要帮忙的邻居，瑞普赶紧冲了下去。
他再往前一靠近，陌生人古怪的模样让他更加吃惊了。
他是一个个头矮小的老头，膀大腰粗，头发浓密，还长着一撮灰白色的山羊胡子。
他穿的是以前的荷兰老款式服装---系着腰带的短布外套产层层相叠的裤子。
最外面一层裤子又大又宽，裤脚管两侧镶着几排纽扣。
他肩上扛着一只木桶，里面似乎装满了酒。
他示意瑞普过来帮他卸下肩上的东西。
瑞普虽然不完全信任这个长相古怪的陌生人，但还是走了过去帮他一把。
他们搭手抬着木桶，里面似乎装满了酒。
他示意瑞普过来帮他卸下肩上的东西。
瑞普虽然不完全信任这个长相古怪的陌生人，但还是走了过去帮他一把。
他们搭手抬着木桶，沿着山腰狭窄的溪沟小道向高耸的岩石山峰攀登时，瑞普开始听到一些异常的声音，有点儿像打雷声，似乎是从山峰间狭窄的山谷深渊中传出来的。
他止步听了听，觉得一定是不远处经过的雷暴。
穿过溪沟小道后，他们来到了一个小山洞，山洞像古希腊时期建造的地下剧场。
一路上，瑞普和他的同伴一声不吭地爬着山路，因为瑞普尽管对有人在这荒山野岭竟然扛着装着酒的木桶感到不解，但他缺乏勇气去问这个陌生的新朋友。
走进山洞，只见各种令人惊奇的新鲜玩意儿。
洞里的中央有一小块平地，一帮面貌古怪的人正在玩九木柱游戏。
他们身着非常奇特的服装，有些腰带上还佩着刀，他们大部分都穿着又长双宽的裤子，和瑞普的向导的裤子差不多。
他们的长相也是古里古怪的，其中有一位，满脸似乎就是一个大鼻子，头顶一顶大白帽。
他们都有胡子，形状和颜色各异。
有一位好像这帮人的头儿，他是一个身体厚实的老者，佩着宽腰带，戴着一顶插着羽毛的高顶帽，脚上穿着红袜子和高跟鞋。
还有一点让瑞普感到特别奇怪。
这帮人显然是在玩游戏，可是他们个个表情认真严肃。
他们默默地打着球，事实上是他见过的最死气沉沉的游戏聚会。
场上除了森柱的滚动声外没有任何声音。
木柱滚动时，撞击声像雷声一样响彻山空。
当瑞普和他的同伴走近他们的时候，他们突然停下手中的游戏，用奇怪的眼光盯着他看，看得他浑身发毛，两腿颤抖。
此时他的同伴将木桶里的东西倒进几个大金属杯子里，示意他端给那帮人。
他胆战心惊地照做了。
他们一声不吭地喝掉了杯中之物，然后继续他们的游戏。
瑞普的紧和害怕渐渐离他而去。
他甚至趁别人不注意地时候壮着胆子尝了一口酒，他很喜欢。
不一会儿，他觉得再尝一口的时机到了。
他一口接着一口，到了最后，他的眼睛怎么也睁不开，头也耷拉在胸前；他进入了梦乡。
醒来时，他发现自己躺在那个长满绿草的小土丘上，他就是在这儿看到那个扛着木桶的老者的。
他擦了擦眼睛，知道现在已经是明媚的早晨。
鸟儿在树丛中欢唱，树叶随着一阵阵清新的山风摇动着。
“当然，”瑞普心想，“我没有在这儿睡上一夜吧！”他记得他睡着前发生的一切：那个扛着酒桶的怪老头-----他们攀越的岩石山路---表情严肃的九木柱游戏者-----金属杯里的美酒。
“哦！好杯子！那神奇的杯子！”瑞普想起来了。
“我该找个什么借口对凡-温克尔太太说呢？”他环顾四周找他的枪，可是在他身边找到的不是那支擦得锃亮的，上好了油的猎枪，而是一支年久不用生了锈的枪。
他现在知道了，是山里那帮九木柱游戏者捉弄了他；他们用酒将他灌醉，然后偷了他的枪。
他的狗沃尔夫也不见了，也许跑到什么地方捉鸟或捉兔子去了。
瑞普吹哨子，喊他的名字，可是全是徒劳。
山里回荡着他的哨子声和喊叫声，可就是不见他的狗。
瑞普决定回到昨晚聚会的地方。
“如果我见到他们，”他自言自语道，“我就向他们要我的狗和枪。
” 他正准备起身要走的时候，他发现他的腿似乎不如平时灵便了；他感到两腿和后背酸痛。
“这些山床对健康不利，”瑞普想。
“要是这次经历使我卧床不起，那我又要挨凡-温克尔太太一顿臭骂了。
他有些吃力地往山下走，来到了山谷。
他找到了他和他的伙伴前一天晚上走过的那条溪沟山道，可是让他非常吃惊的是，这条沟道现在流淌着溪流，溪水在岩石间飞溅，山谷里发出山泉流淌时的尝淙淙欢笑声。
不过，他试着沿小溪水边攀行，穿孔机过树丛和攀缘植物。
他总算来到了那个岩石开的开阔地，也就是九木柱游戏场地的入口处。
可现在连那块开阔地的影子也没有。
那些岩石现在变成了一堵不可逾越的高墙屏障，山涧溪流从这里哗哗落到下面的水塘里。
可怜的瑞普被迫在这里止住脚步。
他又吹了哨子，喊他狗的名字，可是回答他的只是一群山鸟。
带着困惑和不安，他转身向家里走去。
快到村子的时候，他碰见了好几个人，可他一个也不认识，这让他感到惊讶，因为他以为这一带什么人他都认识。
这些人的衣着打扮也和他的朋友和邻居们不一样。
他们和他一样满脸的惊讶。
他们盯着他看，还抬手摸他的下巴。
这种频繁的举动促使瑞普不假思索地也摸了摸自己的下巴。
想象一个，当他发觉自己的胡须比以前长了一英尺的时候，他有多么吃惊！现在他已经到了村口。