Published in 1819 by
Washington Irving, the story of Rip Van
Winkle centers around the character of a Dutch-American living in the
mountains of New York prior to the War for Independence. An American short
story based on Dutch myth and legends experienced in the Hudson River Valley,
novelist Irving created the tale of a villager living in the Catskill Mountains
who awoke to an altered reality akin to how colonial New England transformed
following the establishment of the early American republic.
Initiating the tale with
a description of a quaint Dutch village nestled in the fair Hudson River valley,
Irving introduces the character of Rip Van Winkle - a descendant of the Van
Winkles famed during the days of Peter Stuyvesant. However, Rip lacked the
chivalrous nobility of his ancestors. Instead, he was rather simplistic and
good-natured, though henpecked by his wife. Her shrewish temper and tirades
were warranted as her husband blamed Dame Van Winkle for his mishaps and would
instead play games with village children, preoccupying focus from his patriarchal
role due to an "aversion to all kinds of profitable labor." He would
rather while hours away flying kites, husking corn, telling tales of ghosts and
Indians, assisting neighbors with their chores, and by running errands for the
village ladies. He most cherished hunting in the woods with his dog, Wolf, and ignore
his troubles by fishing all day. Notably, he found little use in cultivating
his deteriorated farm covered in weeds. Suffering from their father's negligence,
his children wore rags and seemed to be as wild as the mountains their father
so loved. His son took after him and declared that he would replicate his
father in speech, dress, and deed - much to his mother's chagrin.
Escaping the tirades of
his wife's lashing tongue, Rip would often flee to the village inn to drown his
sorrows in gossip and to hear the fanciful stories of the refined schoolmaster,
Derrick Van Bummel. Meek and carefree, the lighthearted Winkle submerged
himself in lengthy discussions at the inn. However Dame Winkle would often disrupt
and reprimand his laziness to the point where Nicholas Vedder, the inn's
landlord, refused Rip continued service. Refusing to occupy himself in a
meaningful way, Van Winkle would resort to trekking in the mountains with
faithful dog and gun in hand.
Upon one of his travels
through the Catskills, he reached a high peak in the mountains which enabled him
to survey the entire valley. The hunter lay down to admire the beauty of the
Hudson river and before long, nighttime fell. Right as he roused himself
upwards to return home while regretfully imagining forthcoming beratement, he
happened to hear the call of his name in the twilight. Spying a figure
traveling up the mountain carrying a heavy keg on his back, Winkle shimmied
down to aid the burly individual dressed in antique clothing. Though
apprehensive, Rip helped hoist the package up the ravine. They came to a small
natural amphitheater surrounded by trees where the duo finally rested the
carton of liquor the man had brought to the secluded hollow.
Gazing at the unfamiliar
clearing, Rip realized he was surrounded by curious looking people dressed similarly
to the strange man carrying the barrel up the mountainside. They resembled
figures from old Flemish paintings though not as composed, for in spite of
their wordlessness, they played a game of ninepins. Silence reigned save the
clack of balls resounding like thunder. Trembling in fear as their eyes fell
upon him, the man carrying the keg up the mountain, none other than the ghost
of Henry Hudson - the explorer of the Hudson River after which the valley
received its named – motioned for Rip to wait as he filled flagons with liquor
for the crew of the Half Moon. After
downing their portions, the crewmembers returned to their game while Rip, so
taken with the drink, sipped more and more until his head swam and he slipped
into a dream-like state.
Unable to recall when he nodded
off to sleep, Rip awakened the next morning only to find that his gun has
disintegrated with rot and rust. Rip assumed that the strange men he had
encountered the night before played a trick by dousing him with liquor only to
steal his gun. Rising with creaking joints, Rip whistled for his dog but Wolf
had departed. Thinking Wolf had chased after a nearby fowl, Rip decided to
return to the amphitheater. However, the pass was impaired by a trickling
stream that he did not recall. No amount of effort afforded him entry to the
clearing now covered by vines and thick vegetation. Exhausted, hungry, and
dreading to return to his wife empty-handed, Rip grieved the loss of his dog
and gun, and stumbled homeward.
Managing to find his way
into town, Van Winkle soon became perplexed by all the unfamiliar faces he
spotted along the country road, as he thought we was well-acquainted with most residents.
Their strange method of fashion and gaping stares caused him to mimic their
expressions and the scratching of their chins. Upon scratching his own, he
realized his beard had grown over a foot long.
When he reached the
outskirts of the village he found, to his dismay, not the small yellow brick
houses that were once constructed after the architectural traditions of Holland,
but that the town had grown more populous as there were rows of new houses and storefronts.
Many of his favorite locations had disappeared or were replaced by foreign
signs and family names. Children laughed at him and dogs bristled. Soon Rip
began to wonder if he were in a dream or cast under a spell that had disoriented
the native life of the village he knew to be quite different only the day
before. Seeing that the landscape remained the same, Rip knew that this village
was his own. Acknowledging that his hallucinations were real, Van Winkle, now
an old man, realized that these effects must be due to the peculiar flagon from
which he had sipped.
Coming upon his home, he
found it decayed with the windows shattered and abandoned save the emaciated
dog that resembled his faithful Wolf. When Rip called out to the starved animal
it growled and moved along, causing Rip to mourn that his own dog had forgotten
him. Entering the house, he loudly called for his family yet was met by
silence. He raced out towards the inn, expecting to find a semblance of
normalcy yet once he arrived, it too no longer existed in its original form.
The village inn had been
renovated into a hotel. The sign no longer bared the image of King George but a
new portrait of a man in blue bedecked by a cocked hat. This man, identified as
“George Washington” by the fresh engraving within the wooden emblem, held a
"sword instead of a scepter." Amazement and concern plagued the
disoriented man in the bustling center fraught with talk of liberty, elections,
war heroes, and the rights of citizens. The bewildered man soon gained the
attention of the politically-minded who crowded around him as though he were a
curious spectacle. He was asked which partisan affiliation he adhered to,
Federal or Democrat, and was jostled about as an old gentleman demanded to know
whether he intended to bring a riot into the tavern by wielding his gun.
In dismay,
he attempted to clarify that he was a peaceful subject of the king to which the
crowd accused him of being a tory until the elderly man restored order. After
inquiring the location of his friends, he was informed that Nicholas Vedder and
Brom Dutcher had been long deceased after fighting in the American Revolution
while Van Bummel, the school master, was now a member of Congress. Perplexed by
news of warfare and these new political terms, Van Winkle cried out if anyone knew
a person by his name. Someone indicated to the young, lazy fellow leaning
against a tree. Seeing the vision of his aged son, he began to doubt his
identity and desperately explained how he fell asleep in the mountains and that
everything has changed upon his return. The crowd began to chuckle, thinking
that the old man was simply senile, however, an old woman with a child in her
arms approached.
He recognized her as his
daughter though he saw how considerably aged she had become. He learned through
Judith Gardenier, his daughter, how she was now married and accompanied by a
child, his grandson, Rip Van Winkle III. She told of how Van Winkle was thought
to have gone off into the mountains only to never be heard from again. Most of
the villagers assumed he had either shot himself or had been accosted by
Indians. Van Winkle confessed that he was her father. Believing him, she related
news of her mother’s death and, though Rip was relieved to hear of his nagging
wife’s demise, Rip began to comprehend that he had truly been asleep for twenty
years though he thought he had only spent one night in the Catskills.
Another old neighbor welcomed
him home while Peter Vanderdonk, a historian of Dutch lore and the oldest remaining
villager alive, confirmed the identity of Rip Van Winkle and asserted that his
tale was credible. The pairs’ aligning details regarding the myth of the ghost
of Henry Hudson and his crew pacified the crowd and they soon dispersed. Judith
invited Rip to live at her family home and while there, he quickly resumed his
old habits. As before, he ignored labor and enjoyed the company of children of whom
he gained favor. Irresponsible tendencies continued to plague the elderly man
as he had slept through vital years that may have prompted maturity. Despite
his lethargic tendencies, his natural charm and inherent kindness had not dissipated,
for yet again, the eccentric orator came to be beloved by the villagers whom he
entertained with stories of old Dutch colonial life and of his wanderings in
the wild.
Image (c) Geoffrey Crayon, 1921.
