Articles, Blog

Rip Van Winkle by Washington Irving, unabridged audiobook

From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday, Truth is a thing that ever I will keep
Unto thylke day in which I creep into My sepulchre—
CARTWRIGHT. [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 farm-house, 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, 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 much 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 among 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.]
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. 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
weathercocks. 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 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.
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 for 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 in 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. 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, 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.
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.
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 every thing
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
going so often astray. True it is, in all points of spirit befitting in honorable dog,
he was as courageous an animal as ever scoured the woods—but what courage can withstand
the evil-doing 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, he 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 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 which
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 school-master, 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.
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 any thing that was read or related displeased
him, he was observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and to send forth, 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 only alternative, to escape from the labor of the farm and the 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 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 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.
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 his assistance, he hastened down
to yield it. 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 pairs 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 each other, 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 the 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.
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 ninepins. They were
dressed in 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 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 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. As Rip and his companion approached them,
they suddenly desisted from their play, and stared at him with such a 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.
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 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 the 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 encrusted with rust, the lock falling off,
and the stock worm-eaten. He now suspected that the grave roysterers of the mountains
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. 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 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 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 the 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 new, 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 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, 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—everything 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 a 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!” 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
had 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 rang for a moment with his voice, and then all again
was silence. 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 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 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.”
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.
The appearance of Rip, with his long, grizzled beard, his rusty fowling-piece, his uncouth
dress, and the army of women and children at his heels, soon attracted the attention
of the tavern politicians. They crowded round him, eying him from head to foot, with great
curiosity. The orator bustled up to him, and, drawing him partly aside, inquired, “on which
side he voted?” Rip stared in vacant stupidity. Another short but busy little fellow pulled
him by the arm, and rising on tiptoe, inquired in his ear, “whether he was Federal or Democrat.”
Rip was equally at a loss to comprehend the question; when a knowing, self-important old
gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, made his way through the crowd, putting them to the
right and left with his elbows as he passed, and planting himself before Van Winkle, with
one arm akimbo, the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat penetrating, as
it were, into his very soul, demanded in an austere tone, “What brought him to the election
with a gun on his shoulder, and a mob at his heels; and whether he meant to breed a riot
in the village?” “Alas! gentlemen,” cried Rip, somewhat dismayed,
“I am a poor, quiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal subject of the King, God bless
him!” Here a general shout burst from the bystanders-“a
tory! a tory! a spy! a refugee! hustle him! away with him!” It was with great difficulty
that the self-important man in the cocked hat restored order; and having 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 inquired,
Where’s Nicholas Vedder? There was a silence for a little while, when
an old man replied, in a thin, piping voice, “Nicholas Vedder? why, he is dead and gone
these eighteen years! There was a wooden tombstone in the churchyard that used to tell all about
him, but that’s rotten and gone too.” “Where’s Brom Dutcher?”
“Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war; some say he was killed at the
storming of Stony-Point—others say he was drowned in a squall at the foot of Antony’s
Nose. I don’t know—he never came back again.” “Where’s Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?”
“He went off to the wars, too; was a great militia general, and is now in Congress.”
Rip’s heart died away, at hearing of these sad changes in his home and friends, and finding
himself thus alone in the world. Every answer puzzled him too, by treating of such enormous
lapses of time, and of matters which he could not understand: war—Congress-Stony-Point;—he
had no courage to ask after any more friends, but cried out in despair, “Does nobody here
know Rip Van Winkle?” “Oh, Rip Van Winkle!” exclaimed two or three.
“Oh, to be sure! that’s Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the tree.”
Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself as he went up the mountain; apparently
as lazy, and certainly as ragged. The poor fellow was now completely confounded. He doubted
his own identity, and whether he was himself or another man. In the midst of his bewilderment,
the man in the cocked hat demanded who he was, and what was his name?
“God knows!” exclaimed he at his wit’s end; “I’m not myself—I’m somebody else—that’s
me yonder-no—that’s somebody else, got into my shoes—I was myself last night, but I
fell asleep on the mountain, and they’ve changed my gun, and everything’s changed, and I’m
changed, and I can’t tell what’s my name, or who I am!”
The 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 with the cocked hat retired with some precipitation. At this critical moment a fresh,
comely woman pressed through the throng to get a peep at the gray-bearded man. She had
a chubby child in her arms, which, frightened at his looks, began to cry. “Hush, Rip,” cried
she, “hush, you little fool; the old man won’t hurt you.” The name of the child, the air
of the mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a train of recollections in his mind.
“What is your name, my good woman?” asked he.
“Judith Cardenier.” “And your father’s name?”
“Ah, poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his name, but it’s twenty years since he went away from
home with his gun, and never has been heard of since,—his dog came home without him;
but whether he shot himself, or was carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was
then but a little girl.” Rip had but one more question to ask; but
he put it with a faltering voice: “Where’s your mother?”
Oh, she too had died but a short time since; she broke a blood-vessel in a fit of passion
at a New-England pedler. There was a drop of comfort, at least, in
this intelligence. The honest man could contain himself no longer. He caught his daughter
and her child in his arms. “I am your father!” cried he-“Young Rip Van Winkle once-old Rip
Van Winkle now—Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle!”
All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from among the crowd, put her hand to
her brow, and peering under it in his face for a moment exclaimed, “sure enough! it is
Rip Van Winkle—it is himself. Welcome home again, old neighbor. Why, where have you been
these twenty long years?” Rip’s story was soon told, for the whole twenty
years had been to him but as one night. 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. 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 ninepins in the hollow
of the mountain; and that he himself had heard, one summer afternoon, the sound of their balls,
like distant peals of thunder. 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 any thing else but
his business. 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. 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 to 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. 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 thunder-storm of a summer afternoon
about the Kaatskill, but they say Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their game of ninepins;
and it is a common wish of all henpecked 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.
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 Kypphauser mountain; the subjoined note, however, which 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 cross,
in the justice’s own handwriting. The story, therefore, is beyond the possibility of doubt.
“D. K.” 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 kind 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 rock or cliff on the loneliest
port 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 dished 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 Kaaterskill.

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23 thoughts on “Rip Van Winkle by Washington Irving, unabridged audiobook

  1. Hi!! Please, can you tell me how many pages does this story contains,because whenever i search for it I find just 28 pages and i'm not sure if it is completed or not.

  2. Man why didn't I think of looking up audiobooks for book reports in highschool, could've caught up on classes that I slacked off in.

  3. Summary. "Rip Van Winkle" is set in the years before and after the American Revolutionary War in a village at the foot of New York's Catskill Mountains where Rip Van Winkle, a Dutch-American villager, lives. One autumn day, Van Winkle wanders into the mountains with his dog Wolf to escape his wife's nagging.

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