NORTHWESTERN
UNIVERSITY
LIBRARY
The Gift of
îlAJiïIH M. GRIüLEY
RIP VAN WINKLE
Portrait of Joseph Jefferson.
From Photograph by Fach.
RIP
VAN WINKLE
AS PLAYED BY
joseph jefferson
FOR THE FIRST TIME
PUBLISHED.
otíítí) 3îlltistrati0îts
i
new york
dodd/meàd and company
1896
1 ( ^ 3
eopyfllûht
1 89Ô
^ by <€
dodd'mej'ad'fr,
eo/apany
i»
ssntijersttg îpress :
John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U S.A.
PUBLISHERS' NOTE
HE text of Rip Van Winkle, as played
by Joseph Jefferson, is here for the
first time published. The aim has been to sup¬
ply such illustrations and explanations as will
best recall the play to those who have seen it.
To this end, Mrs. CoRA Hamilton Bell has,
with Mr. Jefferson's approval, amplified and
supplemented the stage directions, and has sup¬
plied descriptive prefaces to each act. Many
of the illustrations are direct reproductions from
photographs of Mr. Jefferson in the character of
Rip." Those in the text are mostly from draw¬
ings by Richard Creifelds, made directly
from scenes in the play.
The portrait is from a photograph of Mr.
Jefferson recently taken, and is the one best
liked by him.
Most interesting of all, perhaps, will be the
reproductions of paintings by Mr. Jefferson him¬
self of scenes in the Catskill Mountains, and the
illustration facing page 120, wherein the figure
is by F. Eugene Smith, and the background
by Mr. Jefferson.
LI 5 S
íof-1 LLVSrMriOflôlL
t.
Page
Portrait of Joseph Jefferson (from pho¬
tograph by Pach/ Photogravure
Fro7itispiece
Old Barn in Paradise Valley. Plioio-
gravttre 12
Scene in Catskill Mountains (from paint-
(ing by Joseph Jefferson). Photo¬
gravure 22
Decoration to precede Act 1 23
Rip Van Winkle (from photograph by
Falk) . 25
" I '11 show you why " 31
^'Are you truly miserable with Rip?" 34
"Looks like the father of the village" 41
"Well, here 's your good health."
Photogravure 46
Suppose you were to hang this bagful
of money inside " 52
"Yes, and I'll have Hendrick, too."
Photogravure 58
" What are you readin' ?" 71
Scene iiL-the Catskill Mountains (from
painting by Joseph Jefferson).
Photogravure 76
^of'lLLV'sr iiflnofi
Page
Decoration to precede Act II. ... 77
" Shall I lay the table for two, mother,
or for three?" 82
" Oh, dear ! did he say so ? " . .
" There is some one outside " . .
" How do I know what I got to say t
that "
" I rolled over on the other side " .
" Don't cry, my daarlin' " ...
"No; you have driven me from you
house." Photogravure . . .
Scene in the Catskill Mountains (from
painting by Joseph Jefferson)
Photogravure
Decoration to precede Act III. . .
" What's the matter with Schneider ? '
Photogravure
" What a funny thing is that a comin
up the hill ?"......
" Well, I'11 help you " ....
" What for licker is that ! " . . .
86
88
93
106
108
114
116
117
120
121
125
131
of
Scene in the Catskill Mountains (from
painting by Joseph Jefferson)
Photograviire
Decoration to precede Act IV. . .
" Oh, I feel very bad
" My gun must have cotched the rheu
matix too "
Why, is that the Village of Falling
Waters?"
" Oh, you shall pay for this ! " . .
" Why, what queer looking creature is
this ?"
"No. She'salive"
"No one remembers Rip Van Winkle.'
Photogravure
"If you come home to-day with red
eyes
Page
136
137
140
141
143
149
154
164
170
176
"That's just the way I felt foi
Gretchen " 182
" One moment, my dear " . . . . 185
"Ah, my child! Somebody knows
me now ! (from photograph by P'alk).
Photogravîire 188
S
IPm
INTRODUCTION.
«
73 IP VAN WINKLE has been received by
the American public for so many years
that I feel emboldened to bespeak a little of
your favour for his new appearance in another
form. This version, now printed for the first
time, may be regarded perhaps as a souvenir
of a greater number of performances than I
can possibly count, and as such I hope may
be acceptable.
I have endeavoured to select from my Auto¬
biography (with the kind consent of the Cen¬
tury Company) 'Such passages relating to the
history of the play and my performance of the
part as may be of interest to the readers of
this volume, and to give the desultory gossip
of the Autobiography a rather more historical
sequence.
I can lay no claim to having invented Rip.
The Greeks knew him; the Germans made a
lO
INTRODUCTION.
home for him in their Hartz Mountains, calling
him Carl, the Shepherd; and the genius of
Washington Irving transplanted him to our
own Kaatskills. Yates, Hackett, and Burke had
each made him the hero of separate dramas and
representations before I tried my hand upon
the legend.
The idea of acting Rip Van Winkle came to
me in the summer of '59. I had arranged to
board with my family at a queer old Dutch
farm-house in Paradise Valley, at the foot of
Pocono Mountain in Pennsylvania. A ridge of
hills covered with tall hemlocks surrounds the
vale, and numerous trout-streams wind through
the meadows and tumble over the rocks. Stray
farms are scattered through the valley, and the
few old Dutchmen and their families who till
the soil were born upon it ; there and only
there they have ever lived. The valley har¬
monised with me and our resources. The scene
was wild, the air was fresh, and the board was
cheap. What could the light heart and purse
of a poor actor ask for more than this?
On one of those long rainy days that always
render the country so dull, I had climbed to
the loft of the barn, and, lying upon the hay,
INTRODUCTION.
II
was reading that delightful book, " The Life
and Letters of Washington Irving." 1 had got
well into the volume, and was much interested
in it, when, to my surprise, I came upon a
passage which said that he had seen me at
Laura Keene's theatre, as Goldßnch^ in Holcroft's
comedy of The Road to Ruin," and that I
reminded him of my father ^^in look, gesture,
size, and make." Till then, I was not aware
that he had ever seen me. I was comparatively
obscure, and to find myself remembered and
written of by such a man gave me a thrill of
pleasure I can never forget. I put down the
book, and lay there thinking how proud I was,
and ought to be, at the revelation of this com¬
pliment. What an incentive to a youngster like
me to go on !
And so I thought to myself, ''Washington
Irving, the author of 'The Sketch-Book,' in
which is the quaint story of Rip Van Winkle."
Rip Van Winkle ! There was to me magic in
the sound of the name as I repeated it. Why,
was not this the very character I wanted? An
American story by an American author was
surely just the theme suited to an American
actor.
12
INTRODUCTION.
In ten minutes I had gone to the house and
returned to the barn with The Sketch-Book.'^
I had not read the story since I was a boy.
I was disappointed in it; not as a story, of
course, but the tale was purely a narrative.
The theme was interesting, but not dramatic.
The silver Hudson stretches out before you as
you read ; the quaint red roofs and queer gables
of the old Dutch cottages stand out against the
the mist upon the mountains ; but all this is
descriptive. The character of Rip does not
speak ten lines. What could be done dramati¬
cally with so simple a sketch? How could it
be turned into an effective play?
Three or four bad dramatisations of the story
had already been acted, but without marked
success. Yates, of London, had given one in
which the hero dies ; one had been acted by my
father, one by Hackett, and another by Burke.
Some of these versions I had remembered when
I was a boy, and I should say that Burke's play
and the performance were the best; but nothing
that I remembered gave me the slightest en¬
couragement that I could get a good play out
of any of the existing materials. Still, I was so
bent upon acting the part that I started for the
Old Barn in Paradise l^alley.
INTRODUCTION
13
city; and in less than a week, by industriously
ransacking the theatrical wardrobe establish¬
ments for old leather and mildewed cloth, and
by personally superintending the. making of the
wigs, each article qi my costume was com¬
pleted; and all this too before I had written a
line of the play or studied a word of the part.
This is working in an opposite direction from
all the conventional methods in the study and
elaboration of a dramatic character, and cer¬
tainly not following the course I would advise
any one to pursue. I merely mention the out-
of-the-way, upside-down manner of going to
work as an illustration of the impatience and
enthusiasm with which I entered upon the task.
I can only account for my getting the dress
ready before I studied the part to the vain
desire I had of witnessing myself in the glass,
decked out and equipped as the hero of the
Kaatskills.
I got together three old printed versions of
the drama and the story itself. The plays were
all in two acts. I thought it would be an im¬
provement in the drama to arrange it in three,
making the scene with the spectre crew an act
by itself. This would separate the poetical from
14
INTRODUCTION.
the domestic side of the story. But by far the
most important alteration was in the interview
with the spirits. In the old versions, they spoke
and sang. I remember that the effect of this
ghostly dialogue was dreadfully human, so I
arranged that no voice but Rip's should be
heard. This was entirely my own invention.
I was quite sure that the silence of the crew
would give a lonely and desolate character to
the scene, and add to its supernatural weirdness.
By this means, too, a strong contrast with the
single voice of Rip was obtained by the death¬
like stillness of the demons " as they glided
about the stage in solemn silence. It required
some thought to hit upon just the best ques¬
tions that could be answered by a nod and
shake of the head, and to arrange that at times
even Rip should propound a query to himself,
and answer it ; but I availed myself of so much
of the old material that in a few days after I
had begun my work, it was finished.
In the seclusion of the barn, I studied and
rehearsed the part; and by the end of the
summer, I was prepared to transplant it from
the rustic realms of an old farm-house to a
cosmopolitan audience, in the city of Washing-
INTRODUCTION.
15
ton, where I opened at Carusi's Hall, under the
management of John T. Raymond. I had gone
over the play so thoroughly that each situa¬
tion was fairly engraved on my mind. The
rehearsals were therefore not tedious to the
actors ; no one was delayed that I might con¬
sider how he or she should be disposed of in
the scene. I had by repeated experiments so
saturated myself with the action of the play that
a few days served to perfect the rehearsals. I
acted, on these occasions, with all the point and
feeling that I could muster. This answered the
double purpose of giving me freedom, and
observing the effect of what I was doing on
the actors. They seemed to be watching me
closely, and I could tell by little nods of approval
when the points hit.
To be brief, the play was acted with a result
that was, to me, ,both satisfactory and disap¬
pointing. I was quite sure that the character
was what I had been seeking, and I was equally
satisfied that the play was not. The action had
neither the body nor the strength to carry the
hero ; the spiritual quality was there, but the
human interest was wanting.
This defect was not remedied until five years
i6
INTRODUCTION.
later, when I met Dion Boucicault, in London.
Then, he agreed to rewrite the drama for a
consideration agreed upon between us. He
never seemed to think much of his labour in
this play; but I did, and do still, with good
reason.
His version was still cast in three acts. Later,
I divided the first act into two, making the end
of the dance the end of an act, rather than the
end of a scene, and enlarged and strengthened
it in various ways suggested by my experience.
It will thus be seen that the play is by no
means the work of one mind, but both as to
its narrative and dramatic form, has i been often
moulded, and by many hands.
In acting the part of Rip, I have always ,
Í
found that what to do was simple enough, but 5
what not to do was the important and difficult
point to determine. The earlier scenes of the
play being of a natural and domestic character,
I had only to draw upon my experience for
their effect. But from the moment Rip meets
the spirits 'of Hendrick Hudson and his crew,
I felt that the colloquial speech and lazy and
commonplace actions of Rip should cease.
After he meets the elves, in the third act, the
INTRODUCTION
17
play drifts from realism into idealism, and be¬
comes poetical. After this, it is a fairy tale,
and the prosaic elements of the character should
be eliminated.
Rip's sympathy with nature is always very
keen, and he talks to the trees and his dog as
if they were human. The fairy element in the
play seems to be attached to it as the fairy
element in a Midsummer Night's Dream."
And because Rip is a fairy, he neither laughs
nor eats in the fourth act. For this reason,
also, when they wanted me to reform at the end
of the play, I said, ''No. Should Rip refuse
the cup, the drama would become a temperance
play; and I should as soon expect to hear of
Cinderella striking for higher wages, or of a
speech on Woman's Rights from Old Mother
Hubbard, as to listen to a temperance lecture
from Rip Van Winkle. It would take all the
poetry completely out of it." So one might
suppose that when Rip wakes up, he would
yawn ; but a yawn, being expressive of a night's
sleep, would destroy the harmony of the twenty
years' sleep. If the sleep of twenty years were
merely incongruous, there would be room for
argument pro and con; but being an impossi-
2
i8
INTRODUCTION.
bility, the mind accepts it, not because it is an
impossibility, but from curiosity to know the
psychological result if such an event could
happen. And it is this strange and original
attitude of the characters that has kept my
interest in it alive for so many years.
I have never staged " Rip with the realism
in fashion of late years, though I have had
various suggestions made to me for elaborating
the spectacular and scenic effects of the play,
among which were the introduction of several
fat old Knickerbockers smoking their long
pipes and quarrelling in Dutch; a large wind¬
mill, with sails to work; dairy-maids, with real
cows ; mechanical effects for the sudden and
mysterious appearance and disappearance of
Hendrick Hudson's crew; and, in the last act,
the Continental army with drums and fifes; a
militia training; and the further introduction of
patriotic speeches about x^merican independence.
So unreal a theme could not have been inter¬
woven with all this realism without marring
the play.
For this reason, when a lady once asked me,
«^Why don't you have a dog in the play?"
I replied that I disliked realism in art; and
INTRODUCTION.
19
realism alive, with a tail to wag at the wrong
time, would be abominable.
^*But don't you think that the public would
like to see Schneider?"
"The public could not pay him a higher
compliment, for it shows how great an interest
they take in an animal that has never been
exhibited. No, no ; ' hold the mirror up to
nature/ if you like, but don't hold nature up, —
a reflection of the thing, but not the thing
itself. How badly would a drunken man give
an exhibition of intoxication on the stage ?
Who shall act as a madman but one who is
perfectly sane? We must not be natural, but
appear to be so."
So, too, I have never felt that the dialect was
an important element in the presentation of the
character. I do not make it so prominent or
so consistent as they would do in a variety show.
If I were to do that, I would destroy the larger
element. I am a Pennsylvanian myself, and I
lived very much among the Pennsylvania Dutch
in the mountains, when I was studying the part,
and I got the flavour of it; but I regard it only
as an accompaniment.
I would like to repeat here a curious incident
20
INTRODUCTION.
connected with " Rip Van Winkle," and I have
done.
There is in the village of Catskill a Rip Van
Winkle Club. This society did me the honour to
invite me to act the character in their town. I
accepted, and when I arrived was met by the
worthy president and other members of the club,
among whom was young Nicholas Vedder, who
claimed to be a lineal descendant of the original
'^Old Nick." Emulating the spirit of evolution,
the citizens had turned the skating-rink into a
theatre, and a very respectable-looking establish¬
ment it made, though in its transition state the
mark of rollers did " cling to it still." I was
taking a cup of tea at the table in the hotel,
when I was attracted to the coloured waiter, who
was giving a graphic and detailed account of
this legend of the Kaatskill Mountains to one
of the> boarders who sat nearly opposite to me.
''Yes, sah," he continued; " Rip went up into
de mountain, slep' for twenty years, and when he
came back hyar, in dis berry town, his own folks
didn'y know him."
" Why," said his listener, " you don't believe
the story's true?"
"True? Ob course it is; why," pointing at
me, " dat's de man."
INTRODUCTION.
21
The town was filled with farmers and their
wives, who had come from far and near to see
the opening of the new theatre, and also, I think
J may say, to see for the first time on the stage
the story which Washington Irving had laid
almost at their very doors.
As I drove to the theatre, the rain came down
in torrents, the thunder rolled, and the lightning
played around the peaks of the distant moun¬
tains under the very shadow of which I was to
act the play. It gave me a very strange sensa¬
tion. When I got to the theatre, I could scarcely
get in, the crowd was so great about the door, —
countrymen trying to get into the ticket-office
instead of the proper entrance, and anxious and
incredulous old ladies endeavouring to squeeze
past the doorkeeper, but refusing to give up their
tickets. The rush over, the play began. The
audience was intent on the scene as it progressed,
and seemed anxious not to lose a word. During
the scene in the last act where Rip inquires of
the innkeeper, Is this the village of Falling
Waters? " I altered the text, and substituted the
correct name, Is this the village of Catskill?'^
The crowded house almost held its breath. The
name of the village seemed to bring the scene
22
INTRODUCTION.
home to every man, woman, and child that was
looking at it. From this time on the interest was
at its full tension. Surely, I had never seen an
audience so struck with the play before.
There was a reception held at the club after
the play, and the worthy president, in introduc¬
ing me to the company, was so nervous that he
announced me as *^Mr. Washington Irving."
Joseph Jefferson.
New York,
October^ 1895.
Scene in Catskill Mountains,
From Painting by Joseph Jefferson.
RIP VAN WINKLE
ACT I.
Scene i.
The village of Falling Waters, set amid
familiar and unmistakable Hudson River
scenery, with the shining river itself and
the noble heights of the Kaatskills visible
in the distance. In the foreground, to the
left of the stage, is a country inn bearing
the sign of George III. In the wall of the
inn, a window closed by a solid wooden
shutter. To the right of the stage, an old
cottage with a door opening into the inte¬
rior; before the cottage stands a bench
holding a wash-tub, with washboard, soap,
and clothes in the tub. In the centre of
the sta^.e, a table and chairs, and on the
table-a stone pitcher and two tin cups.
As the curtain rises, Gretchen is discovered
washing, and little Meenie sitting near by
on a low stool. The sound of a chorus
and laughter comes from the inn.
Gretchen.
Shouting and drinking day and night.
Laughter is heard from the inn.
28
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Hark how they crow over their cups while
their wives are working at home, and their chil¬
dren are starving.
Enter Derrick from the inn with a green bag,
followed by Nick Vedder. Derrick places
his green bag on the table.
Derrick.
Not a day, not an hour. If the last two
quarters' rent be not paid by this time to-mor¬
row, out you go !
Nick.
Oh, come, Derrick, you won't do it. Let
us have a glass, and talk the matter over ;
good liquor opens the heart. Here, Hendrick !
Hendrick ! Hendrick.
Hendrick.
Yes, father.
Derrick.
So that is your brat?
Nick.
Yes, that is my boy.
Derrick.
Then the best I can wish him is that he won't
take after his father, and become a vagabond and
a penniless outcast.
RIP VAN WINKLE
29
Nick.
Those are hard words to hear in the presence
of my child.
Hendrick.
Then why don't you knock him down, father?
Gretchen.
I ^11 tell you why —
Derrick.
Gretchen !
Gretchen.
Wiping her arms and coming to front of tub.
It is because your father is in that man's
power. And what's the use of getting a man
down, if you don't trample on him?
Nick.
Oh, that is the way of the world.
Gretchen.
, To Hendrick.
Go in, boy. I want to speak to your father,
and my words may not be fit for you to hear.
Yonder is my little girl ; go and play with her.
Hendrick and Meenie exeunt into the cottage.
Gretchen.
Now, Derrick, Vedder is right: you won't turn
him out of his house yonder.
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Derrick.
And why not? Don't he owe me a year's
rent?
Gretchen.
And what do you owe him? Shall I sum up
your accounts for you? Ten years ago, this
was a quiet village, and belonged mostly to my
husband, Rip Van Winkle, a foolish, idle fellow.
That house yonder has since been his ruin.
Yes ; bit by bit, he has parted with all he had,
to fill the mouths of sots and boon companions,
gathered around him in yonder house. And
you, Derrick, — you supplied him with the money
to waste in riot and drink. Acre by acre, you've
sucked in his land to swell your store. Yonder
miserable cabin is the only shelter we have left ;
but that is mine. Had it been his, he would
have sold it to you. Derrick, long ago, and
wasted its price in riot.
Vedder, who has been enjoying Derrick's
discomfiture during this speech, is unable
to control himself, and at the end of speech
bursts into a loud laugh.
Gretchen.
Aye, and you too, Nick Vedder; you have
ruined my husband between you.
RIP VAN WINKLE.
31
Nick.
Oh, come, Mrs. Van Winkle, you're too hard.
I could n't refuse Rip's money in the way of
business ; I had my rent to pay.
Gretchen.
And shall I tell you why you can't pay it? it
is because you have given Rip credit, and he
has ended by drinking
you out of house and
home. Your win¬
dow-shutter is not
wide enough to hold
the score against
him; it is full of
chalk. Deny it if
you can.
Nick.
I do deny it.
There now I
Gretchen.
Then why do you keep that shutter closed ?
I '11 show you why.
Goes to inn, opens shutter, holds it open,
pointing at Rip's score.
That's why.
32
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Nick Vedder, you 're a good man in the main,
if there is such a thing.
Derrick laughs.
Aye, and I doubt it
Turning on him.
But you are the pest of this village; and the
hand of every woman in it ought to help to
pull down that drunkard's nest of yours, stone
by stone.
Nick.
Come, Dame Van Winkle, you're too hard
entire ; now a man must have his odd time, and
he's none the worse for being a jolly dog.
Gretchen.
No, none the worse. He sings a good song; he
tells a good story, — oh, he's a glorious fellow !
Did you ever see the wife of a jolly dog? Well,
she lives in a kennel. Did you ever see the
children of a jolly dog? They are the street
curs, and their home is the gutter.
Goes up to wash-tub, and takes revenge on
the clothing she scrubs.
Nick.
Getting up and approaching Gretchen timidly.
I tell you what it is. Dame Van Winkle, I
don't know what your home may be, but judg-
RIP VAN WINKLE.
33
iiig from the rows I hear over there, and the
damaged appearance of Rip's face after having
escaped your clutches —
Gretchen looks up angrily ; Nick retreats a
few paces hastily —
I should say that a gutter was a luxurious abode
compared with it, and a kennel a peaceful
retreat.
Exit hurriedly, laughing, into the inn. Gretchen
looks up angrily, and throws the cloth she
has been wringing after him, then re¬
sumes washing. Derrick laughs at Ved-
der's exit, walks up to Gretchen, and puts
one foot on bench.
Derrick.
Is it true, Gretchen? Are you truly miserable
with Rip?
Gretchen.
Ain't you pleased to hear it? Come then and
warm your heart at my sorrow. Ten years ago
I might have had you. Derrick. But I despised
you for your miserly ways, and threw myself
away on a vagabond.
Derrick.
You and I shared him between us. I took his
estate, and you took his person. Now, I've
improved my half. What have you done with
yours?
3
34
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Gretchen.
I can't say that I've prospered with it. I've
tried every means to reclaim him, but he is as
obstinate and perverse as a Dutch pig. But the
worst in him —and what I can't stand — is his
good-humour. It drives me
frantic when, night after night,
he comes home drunk and
helplessly good - humoured 1
Oh, I can't stand that !
til he comes back ! Th
the worse it will be for
Gretchen.
We had a tiff yes¬
terday, and he started.
He has been out all
night. Only wait un-
: longer he stops out,
him.
Derrick.
Where is he now?
Derrick.
Gretchen, you've made a great mistake, but
there is time enough to repair it. You are
RIP VAN WINKLE.
35
comely still, thrifty, and that hard sort of grain
that I most admire in woman.
Looks cautiously around. Leans on tub
J •
Why not start Rip for ever, and share my for¬
tune?
Gretchen.
Oh, no. Derrick ; you Ve got my husband in
your clutches, but you can't get them around me.
If Rip would only mend his ways, he would see
how much I love him ; but no woman could love
you. Derrick; for woman is not a domestic ani¬
mal, glad to serve and fawn upon a man for the
food and shelter she can get ; and that is all she
would ever get from you. Derrick.
Piling the clothes on the washboard, and
shouldering it.
Derrick.
The time may come when you '11 change your
tune.
Gretchen.
Not while Rip lives, bad as he is.
Exit into cottage.
Derrick.
Then I '11 wait until you've killed hirn. Her
spirit is not broken yet. But patience. Derrick,
30 RIP VAN WINKLE.
t
patience ; in another month I '11 have my claws
on all that remains of Rip's property, — yonder
cottage and grounds ; then I '11 try you again,
my lady.
Enter Cockles, with papers in his hand, run¬
ning towards the inn.
Derrick.
How now, you imp? What brings you here so
full of a hurry? Some mischief's in your head,
or your heels would not be so busy.
Cockles.
I've brought a letter for you from my employer.
There it is.
Derrick.
Examining letter.
Why, the seal is broken !
Cockles.
Yes ; I read it as I came along.
y ■'
Derrick.
Now I apprenticed this vagabond to my law¬
yer, and this is his gratitude.
Cockles.
Don't waste your breath, Nunky, for you '11
want it ; for when you read that, if it don't take
you short in the wind I '11 admire you.
RIP VAN WINKLE.
37
Derrick,
Reads.
You must obtain from Rip Van Winkle a
proper conveyance of the lands he has sold to
you. The papers he has signed are in fact noth¬
ing but mortgages on his estate. If you fore¬
close, you must sell the property, which has
lately much advanced in value ; and it would sell
for enough to pay off your loan, and all your
improvements would enure to the benefit of Rip
Van Winkle."
Cockles.
There, now, see what you Ve been doing of! -—
wasting your money and my expectations on
another chap's property. Do you want to leave
me a beggar?
Derrick.
Reads.
I enclose a deed for him to sign that will
make him safe." .
Cockles.
Of course he '11 sign it ; he won't wait to be
asked— he'll be in such a hurry.
Derrick.
All my savings — all my money — sunk in
improving this village I
3^
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Cockles.
Yes, instead of physicking Rip, as you thought,
you Ve been coddling him all the while.
Derrick.
All these houses I Ve built are on another
man's land. What shall I do?
Cockles.
Pull them down again ; pull them down.
Derrick.
Ass ! — dolt that I have been !
Cockles.
Calling yourself names won't mend it, Nunky.
Derrick.
The imp is right. Rip must be made to sign
this paper. But how — how?
Cockles.
How? How? How's a big word sometimes,
ain't it, Nunky?
Derrick.
Rip would not do it if he knew what he was
about. But he can't read — nor write, for the
RIP VAN WINKLE
39
matter of that. But he can make his cross, and
I can cajole him.
Cockles.
Look sharp, Nunky. The man that's looking
round for a fool, and picks up Rip Van Winkle,
will let him drop again very quick.
Derrick.
He is poor : I '11 show him a handful of money.
He's a drunkard: I'll give him a stomachful of
liquor. Go in, boy, and leave me to work this;
and let this be a lesson to vou hereafter : beware
of the fatal effects of poverty and drink.
Cockles.
Yes, — and parting with my money on bad
security.
Exit. Laughter outside.
Derrick.
»
Here he comes now, surrounded by all the
dogs and children in the district. They cling
around him like flies around a lump of sugar.
Rip enters, running and skipping, carrying
one small child pickaback, and surrounded
by a swarm of others hanging on the skirts
of his coat. He is laughing like a child
himself, and his merry blue eyes twinkle
40 RIP VAN WINKLE.
with delight. He is dressed in an old deer¬
skin coat, a pair ol breeches which had
once been red, now tattered, patched, and
frayed, leather gaiters and shoes equally
dilapidated, a shapeless felt hat with a bit
of the brim hanging loose, — the whole
stained and weatherworn to an almost uni¬
form clay-colour, except for the bright blue
of his jean shirt and the scarlet of his long
wisp of a necktie. One of the boys carries
his gun.
Rip.
Taking his gun from the boy.
There, run along mit you ; run along.
Derrick.
The children scamper off.
The vagabond looks like the father of the
village.
Rip.
> ■ , Who has stood laughing, and watching the
children, suddenly calls after them.
Hey! You let my dog Schneider alone there;
you hear that Sock der Jacob der bist eine for
donner spits poo —yah —
Derrick.
Why, what's the matter, Rip?
RIP VAN WINKLE.
41
Rip.
Coming down, and shaking hands with Derrick.
Oh, how you was, Derrick? how you was.'
Derrick.
You seem in trouble.
42
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Rip.
Oh, yah; you know them fellers. Veil, I tole
you such a funny thing.
Laughing.
Just now, as me and Schneider was comin' along
through the willage, — Schneider's my dawg; I
don't know whether you know him?
Rip always speaks of Schneider at if he were
a person, and one in whom his hearer took
as profound an interest as he does himself.
Well, them fellers went an' tied a tin kettle mit
Schneider's tail, and how he did run then, mit the
«
kettle hanging about. Well, I did n't hi him
comin'. He run betwixt me an' my legs, an'
spilt me an' all them children in the mud ; —
yah, that's a fact.
Rip leans his gun against the cottage
Derrick.
Aside.
Now's my time.
Aloud.
Vedder ! Vedder!
Vedder appears at the door of the inn.
Bring us a bottle of liquor. Bring us your best,
and be quick.
RIP VAN WINKLE. 43
Nick.
What's in the wind now? The devil's to pay
when Derrick stands treat !
Exit. Re-enters, with bottle and cups in left
hand. Hands bottle to Derrick.
Rip lounges forward, and perches on the cor¬
ner of the table.
Derrick.
Rising and approaching Rip.
Come, Rip, what do you say to a glass?
Rip.
Takes a cup, and holds it to be filled.
Oh, yah ; now what do I generally say to a
glass? I say it's a fine thing — when there's
plenty in it (Ve gates ! Ve gates !)
Shakes hands with Nick.
An' then I says more to what's in it than I do to
the glass. Now you would n't believe it, — that's
the first one I've had to-day.
Derrick.
How so?
Rip.
Dryly.
Because I could n't get it before, I suppose.
Derrick.
Then let me fill him up for you.
44
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Rip.
No, that is enough for the first one.
Nick.
Come, Rip, a bumper for the first one.
Rip.
That is enough for the first one.
Derrick.
Come, Rip, let me fill him up for you.
Rip.
With ludicrous decision and dignity.
I believe I know how much to drink. When I
says a thing, I mean it.
Derrick.
Oh, well —
Turns aside, and starts to fill his own cup.
Rip.
. All right ; come along.
Holding out his glass, and laughing at his
own inconsistency.
Here's your good health and your families', and
may they live long and prosper !
They all drink. At the end, Nick smacks his
lips and exclaims " Ah ! " Derrick repeats
same, and Rip repeats after Derrick.
RIP VAN WINKLE.
45
Rip.
To Nick, sadly.
Ah, you may well go Ah ! " and smack your
chops over that. You don't give me such
schnapps when I come. Derrick, my score is
too big now.
Jerking his head towards the shutter, he
notices for the first time that it is open.
What you go and open that window for? —
That's fine schnapps, Nick. Where you got
that?
Nick.
That's high Dutch, Rip, — high Dutch, and
ten years in bottle. Why, I had that in the very
day of your wedding. We broached the keg
under yonder shed. Don't you recollect?
Rip.
Is that the same?
I
Nick.
Yes.
Rip.
I thought I knowed that licker. You had it
ten years ago?
Laughing suddenly
I would not have kept it so long. But stop,
mein freund ; that's more than ten years ago.
46
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Nick.
No, it ain't.
Rip.
It's the same day I got married?
Nick.
Yes.
Rip.
Well, I know by that. You think I forgot the
day I got married? Oh, no, my friend; I re¬
member that day long as I live.
Serious for a moment. Takes off his hat,
and puts it on the table.
Derrick.
Ah ! Rip, I remember Gretchen then, ten
years ago.— Zounds, how I envied you!
Rip.
Looking up, surprised.
Did you?
Winks at Nick. Then, suddenly remembering.
So did 1. 'You did n't know what was comin',
Derrick.
Derrick.
She was a beauty.
Well, here's your good health d
RIP VAN WINKLE. 47
Rip.
What, Gretchen? — Yes, she was. She was a
pretty girl. My! My! Yah, we was a fine
couple altogether. Well, come along.
Holding out his cup to Derrick, who fills it
from the bottle.
Nick.
Yes, come along.
Takes water pitcher from table, and starts to
fill up Rip's cup. Rip stops him.
Rip.
Who has been lounging against the table, sits
on it, and puts his feet on the chair.
Stop ! I come along mitout that, Nick Vedder.
Sententiously>
Good licker and water is like man and wife.
Derrick and Nick.
How's that. Rip ?
Rip.
Laughing.
They don't agree together. I always like my
licker single. Well, here's your good health,
and your families', and may they live long and
prosper !
They all drink.
48
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Nick.
That right, Rip ; drink away, and drown
your sorrow.
Rip.
D roily.
Yes ; but she won't drown. My wife is my
sorrow, and you cannick drown her. She tried
it once, but could n't do it.
Derrick and Nick.
Why, how so?
Rip.
Puts down his cup and clasps his knee, still
perched on the corner of the table.
Did ti't you know that Gretchen like to got
drown?
Derrick and Nick.
No.
Rip.
Puts hat on.
That's the funniest thing of the whole of it.
It's the same day I got married ; she was
comin' across the river there in the ferry-boat
to get married mit me —
Derrick and Nick.
Yes.
Rip.
Well, the boat she was comin' in got upsetted.
RIP VAN WINKLE. 49
Derrick and Nick.
Ah!
Rip.
Well, but she was n't in it.
Derrick and Nick.
Oh!
Rip.
Explaining quite seriously.
No, that's what I say: if she had been in the
boat what got upsetted, maybe she might have
got drowned.
More and more reflective.
I don't know how it was she got left some¬
how or other. Women is always behind that
way — always.
Derrick.
But surely, Rip, you would have risked your
life to save such a glorious creature as she was.
Rip.
Incredulously.
You mean I would yump in and pull Gretchen
out?
Derrick.
Yes.
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Rip.
Oh, would I?
Suddenly remembering.
Oh, you mean then — yes, I believe I would
then.
With simple conviction.
But it would be more my duty now than it
was then.
Derrick.
How so?
Rip.
Quite seriously.
Why, you see when a feller gets married a
good many years mit his wife, he gets very
much attached to her
Nick.
Pompously.
Ah, he does indeed.
Rip.
Winks at Derrick, and points at Nick with
his thumb.
1
But if Mrs. Van Winkle was a-drowning in
the water now, an' she says to me, Rip, come
an' save your wife ! " I would say, Mrs. Van
Winkle, I will yust go home and think about
it." Oh, no. Derrick, if ever Gretchen tumbles
in the water, she's got to swim now, you mind
that.
RIP VAN WINKLE
51
Derrick.
She was here just now, anxiously expecting
you home.
Rip.
I know she's keeping it hot for me.
Nick.
What, your dinner. Rip?
Rip.
No, the broomstick.
Exit Nick into house, laughing.
Rip.
Confidentially.
Derrick, whenever I come back from the
mountains, I always stick the game-bag in the
window and creep in behind.
Derrick.
Seating himself on the table by the side of
Rip.
H ave you anything now?
Rip.
Dropping into the chair Derrick has just
left. Leaning back, and putting hands
behind his head.
What for game? No, not a tail, I believe,
not a feather.
With humorous indifference.
52
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Derrick.
Touching Rip on the shoulder and shaking
a bag of money.
Rip, suppose you were to hang this bagful of
moneys inside, don't you think it would soothe
her down, eh?
Rip.
Sitting up.
Í For me, is that?
. Derrick.
Yes.
Rip,
With a shrewd
glance.
Ain't you yokin'
mit me?
Derrick.
No, Rip, I've prospered with the lands you've
sold me, and I '11 let you have a loan on easy
terms. I '11 take no interest.
Rip.
Getting up and walking forward, with decision.
No, I'm afräid I might pay you again some
day. Derrick.
RIP VAN WINKLE.
53
Derrick.
And so you shall, Rip, pay me when you
please.
Puts the bag in Rip's hands, and forces his
fingers over it, turns, and goes to table,
speaking as he goes.
Say, in twenty years, — twenty years from this
day. Ah, where shall we be then?
Rip.
Quizzically, and half to himself.
I don't know about myself ; but I think I can
guess where 3/ou '11 be about that time.
Takes chair and sits down.
Derrick.
Well, Rip, I '11 just step into the inn and
draw out a little acknowledgment.
Rip.
Who has been sitting, leaning forward with
his elbows on his knees, softly chinking
the bag of money in his hand, looks up
suddenly.
Knowledgment — for what is that?
Derrick.
Yes, for you to put your cross to.
54
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Rip.
Indifferently.
All right ; bring it along.
Derrick.
No fear of Gretchen now, eh, Rip?
Rip.
Plunged in thought.
Oh, no.
Derrick.
You feel quite comfortable now, don't you,
Rip?
Exit into inn.
Rip.
Oh, yah !
Suddenly becoming serious and much mysti¬
fied at Derrick's conduct.
Well, I don't know about that, Derrick!
Derrick !
Holding up the bag and chinking it.
It don't chink like good money neither. It
rattles like a snake in a hole.
Grimly.
Gretchen.
Inside the cottage.
Out with that lazy, idle cur ! I won't have him
here. Out, I say !
RIP VAN WINKLE.
55
Rip.
I'm glad I'm not in there now. I believe
that's Schneider what she's lickin'; he won't
have any backbone left in him.
Sadly.
I would rather she would lick me than the
dog; I'm more used to it than he is.
Gets up, and looks in at the window.
There she is at the wash-tub.
Admiring her energy, almost envying it.
What a hard-workin' woman that is ! Well,
somebody must do it, I suppose.
With the air of a profound moral reflection.
She's comin' here now; she's got some
broomstick mit her, too.
Rip snatches up his gun and slinks off
around the corner of the house.
Enter Gretchen with broomstick, followed
by Hendrick and Meenie, carrying clothes-
basket.
Gretchen.
Come along, children. Now, you take the
washing down to Dame Van Sloe's, then call at
the butcher's and tell him that my husband has
not got back yet, so I will have to go down
myself to the marsh, and drive up the bull we
56
rip van winkle:
have sold to him. Tell him the beast shall be
in his stable in half an hour; so let him have
the money ready to pay me for it.
During this Rip has crept in and sat on the
bench by the side of the tub behind
Gretchen.
Ah, it is the last head of cattle we have left
/
Houses, lands, beasts, everything gone, — every¬
thing except a drunken beast who nobody
would buy or accept as a gift.
Rip ! Rip ! wait until I get you home !
Threatening an imaginary Rip with broom¬
stick.
With a comical grimace, Rip tiptoes back
behind the house.
Come, children, to work, to work !
Exit.
Re-enter Rip cautiously.
Rip.
, > , Laughing to himself.
She gone to look after the bull. She better
not try the broomstick on him ; he won't stand
it.
Drops into the chair with his back to the
audience.
Hendrick.
Oh, Meenie, there's your father.
RIP VAN WINKLE. 57
Rip.
Holds out his arms, and Meenie runs into
them.
Taking her in his arms, and embracing her
with great tenderness.
Ah, little gorl, was you glad to see your
father come home?
Meenie.
Oh, yes !
Rip.
Holding her close.
I don't believe it, was you? Come here.
Getting up and leading her to the chair by
the side of the table.
Let me look at you ; I don't see you for such
a long time ; come here. I don't deserve to
have a thing like that belong to me.
Takes his hat off as if in reverence.
You 're too good for a drunken, lazy feller
like me, that's a fact.
Bites his underlip, looks up, and brushes
away a tear.
Meenie.
Kneeling by him.
Oh, no, you are a good papa !
5S
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Rip.
No, I wasn't: no good father would go and
rob his child ; that's what I've done. Why,
don't you know, Meenie, all the houses and
lands in the village was mine — they would all
have been yours when you grew up? Where
they gone now? I gone drunk 'em up, that's
where they gone. Hendrick, you just take
warnin' by that ; that's what licker do ; see
that?
Holds up the skirt of coat.
Bring a man to hunger and rags. Is there
any more in that cup over there? Give it to
me.
Drinks.
Rip makes this confession with a childlike
simplicity. The tears come, and he brushes
them away once or twice. When he asks
for the cup, at the end, it seems but the
natural conclusion of his speech.
Hendrick.
Hands him cup.
Don't cry, Rip ; Meenie does not want your
money, for when I'm a big man I shall work
for her, and she shall have all I get.
Meenie.
Yes, and I'll have Hendrick, too.
' Yes, and ¡di have Hendrick, food
RIP VAN WINKLE.
59
Rip.
Greatly amused.
You '11 have Hendrick, too.
With mock gravity.
Well, is this all settled?
Hendrick.
Yes, Meenie and me have made it all up.
Rip.
I did n't know, I only thought you might
speak to me about it; but if it's all settled,
Meenie, then git married mit him.
Laughing silently, and suddenly.
You goin' to marry my daughter? well, now
that's very kind of you. Marry one another?
The children nod.
Rip, with immense seriousness.
Well, here's your good health, and your
farnily, may they live long and prosper.
To Hendrick.
\ 1
What you goih' to do when you get married,
and grow up and so?
Leans forward.
Hendrick.
I'm not going to stop here with father ; oh,
no, that won't do. I'm going with Uncle Hans
in his big ship to the North Pole, to catch
whales.
6o
RIP VAN WINKLE
Rip.
Goin' to cotch wahales mit the North Pole?
That's a long while away from here.
Hendrick.
Yes, but uncle will give me ten shillings a
month, and I will tell him to pay it all to
Meenie.
Rip.
There ! He's goin' to pay it all to you ;
that's a good boy, that's a good boy.
Meenie.
Yes, and I'll give it all to you to keep for us.
Rip.
With one of his little explosive silent laughs.
I would n't do that, my darlin' ; maybe if you
give > it. to me, you don't get it back again.
Hendrick !
Suddenly earnest.
You shall marry Meenie when you grow up,
but you mustn't drink.
Hendrick.
Slapping Rip on the knee.
I'll never touch a drop.
RIP VAN WINKLE.
ÓI
Rip.
Quite seriously.
You won't, nor me neither; shake hands upon
it. Now we swore off together.
With a change of tone.
I said so so many times, and never kept my
word once, never.
Drinks.
Hendrick.
I Ve said so once, and I '11 keep mine.
Derrick.
Outside.
Well, bring it along with you.
Rip.
Here comes Derrick : he don't like some
children; run along mit you.
Exit children with basket.
Enter Derrick from, inn with document.
Derrick.
There, Rip, is the little acknowledgment.
Handing it to him.
Rip.
Knowledgment.
Putting on hat.
For what is that?
02
RIP VAN WINKLE.
uerrick.
That is to say I loaned you the money.
Rip.
Lounging back in his chair.
I don't want that ; I would lose it if I had it.
Fills his cup from the bottle.
I don't want it.
Blandly.
Derrick.
Don't you? But I do.
Rip.
With simple surprise.
For what?
Derrick.
Why, for you to put your cross to. Why,
bless me, I've forgotten my pen and ink.
Enter Cockles.
But luckily here comes my nephew with it.
Aside.
.And in time to witness the signature.
Rip.
Say, Derrick, have you been writing all that
paper full in the little time you been in the
house there?
Turns the paper about curiously.
Pours out more schnapps.
RIP VAN WINKLE.
63
Derrick.
Yes, every word of it.
Rip.
Have you? Well, just read it out loud to me.
With an air of great simplicity.
Derrick.
Aside.
Does he suspect?
Aloud.
Why, Rip, this is the first time you ever
wanted anything more than the money.
Rip.
Clasping his hands behind his head with an
air of lordly indifference.
Yes, I know; but I got nothing to do now.
Dm a little curious about that, somehow.
Cockles.
Aside to Derrick.
The fish has taken the ground bait, but he's
curious about the hook.
Derrick.
Aside.
I dare not read a word of it.
64
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Cockles.
Aside.
Nunkey's stuck.
Derrick.
Well, Rip, I suppose you don't want to hear
the formalities.
Rip.
The what?
Derrick.
The preliminaries.
Rip.
Indolently.
I '11 take it all, — Bill, Claws, and P'eathers.
Leans forward and rests his head on his
hand, and looks at the ground.
Derrick.
Know all men by these presents that I, Rip
Van Winkle, in consideration of the sum of
sixteen pounds received by me from Derrick
Von Beekman" —
Looks around at Cockles; they wink know¬
ingly at each other. Continues as if
reading. Watching Rip —
Do promise and undertake to pay the same
in twenty years from date.
Rip looks up ; as he does so, Derrick drops
his eyes on document, then looks as if he
had just finished reading.
There, now are you satisfied?
RIP VAN WINKLE.
65
Rip.
Takes the document. In childlike surprise.
Well, well, and does it take all that pen and
ink to say such a little thing like that?
Derrick.
Why, of course it does.
Cockles.
Aside to Derrick.
Oh, the fool ! he swallows it whole, hook and
all.
Rip.
spreading the paper on the table.
Where goes my cross, Derrick?
Derrick.
Pointing.
There, you see I've left a nice little white
corner for you.
Rip.
Folds up paper in a leisurely manner, and
puts it in game-bag.
W-e-1-1, I '11 yust think about it.
Looks up at Derrick, innocently.
Derrick.
Think about it? Why, what's the matter.
Rip, isn't the money correct?
5
66
RIP VAN WINKLE
Rip.
Oh, yes, I got the money all right.
Chuckling.
Oh 1 you mean about signing it.
Rising. At a loss, for a moment.
Stop, yesterday was Friday, wasn't it?
Derrick.
So it was.
Rip.
With an air of conviction.
Well, I never do nothing like that the day
after Friday, Derrick.
Rip walks away towards his cottage.
Derrick.
Aside.
The idiot! what can that signify? But I
must not arouse his suspicions by pressing
him.
Aloud.
Yqu are right, Rip: sign it when you please;
but I say. Rip, now that you 're in funds, won't
you help your old friend Nick Vedder, who
owes me a year's rent?
Rip.
Coming back to the table.
Oh, yah. I will wipe off my schore, and stand
treat to the whole willage.
RIP VAN WINKLE.
67
Derrick.
Run, boy, and tell all the neighbours that Rip
stands treat.
Rip.
Leans on back of chair.
An', Cockles, tell them we 'II have a dance.
Cockles.
A dance !
Runs off.
Derrick.
And I '11 order the good cheer for you.
Exit.
Rip.
So do ! so do !
Cogitating dubiously.
I don't understand it.
Re-enter Hendrick with the basket over his
head, followed by Meenie.
Oh, you've come back?
Hendrick.
Yes, we've left the clothes.
Rip.
Meenie, you take in the basket.
Exit Meenie with basket into cottage.
Hendrick is following.
68
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Hendrick, come here.
Hendrick kneels between Rip's knees.
So you are going to marry my daughter?
Hendrick nods.
So, so. That's very kind of yer.
Abruptly.
Why you don't been to school to-day, you
go to school sometimes, don't you?
Hendrick.
Yes, when father can spare me.
Rip.
What do you learn mit that school, — pretty
much something?
Laughing at his mistake.
I mean, everything?
Hendrick.
Yes; reading, writing, and arithmetic.
■ ' Rip.
Reading, and what?
Hendrick.
And writing, and arithmetic.
Rip.
Writing, and what?
Puzzled.
More puzzled.
RIP VAN WINKLE. 69
Hendrick.
Arithmetic.
Rip.
VVhatmeticks is that?
Hendrick.
Arithmetic.
Rip.
With profound astonishment and patting
Hendrick's head.
I don't see how the little mind can stand it
all. Can you read?
Hendrick.
Oh, yes !
Rip.
With a serious affectation of incredulity.
I don't believe it; now, I'm just goin' to see
if you can read. If you can't read, I won't let
you marry my daughter. No, sir.
Very drolly.
I won't have nobody in my family what can't
read.
Taking out the paper that Derrick has given
him.
Can you read ritmatics like that?
Hendrick.
Yes, that's writing.
70
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Rip.
Nonplussed.
Oh ! I thought it was reading.
Hendrick.
It's reading and writing, too.
Rip.
What, both together.
Suspiciously looking at the paper.
Oh, yes ; I did n't see that before ; go long
with it.
Hendrick.
Reads.
"Know all men by these presents" —
Rip.
Pleased, leaning back in his chair.
Yah! That's right, what a wonderful thing
der readin' is ; why, you read it pretty nigh as
good as Derrick, yes, you do ; go long.
y
Hendrick.
"That I, Rip Van Winkle" —
Rip.
Taking off his hat, and holding it with his
hands behind his head.
Yah, that's right; you read it yust as well as
Derrick; go long.
RIP VAN WINKLE. 71
Hendrick.
" In consideration of the sum of sixteen
pounds received do hereby sell and convey to
Derrick Von Beekman all my estate, houses,
lands whatsoever" —
Hat drops.
72
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Rip.
Almost fiercely.
What are you readin', some ritmatics what
ain't down there; Where you got that?
Looking sharply at Hendrick.
Hendrick.
Pointing.
There. Houses ! Lands, whatsoever.
Rip.
Looking not at the paper but at Hendrick
very earnestly, as if turning over in his
mind whether the boy has read it correctly.
Then satisfied of the deception Derrick
has practised upon him, and struck by
the humour of the way in which he has
discovered it, he laughs exultantly and
looks towards the inn-door through which
Derrick disappeared a short time before.
Yes, so it is; go long mit the rest.
He leans forward, and puts his ear close to
Hendrick, so as not to miss a word.
Hendrick.
'^Whereof he now holds possession by mort¬
gaged deeds, from time to time executed by
me."
RIP VAN WINKLE.
73
Rip.
Takes paper, and looks towards the inn
fiercely exultant.
You read it better than Derrick, my boy,
much better.
After a moment's pause recollects himself.
Kindly, to Hendrick.
That will do ; run along mit you.
Exit Hendrick.
Rip.
Triumphantly.
Aha, my friend. Derrick ! I guess you got
some snakes in the grass. Now keep sober.
Rip; I don't touch another drop so long what
I live; I swore off now, that's a fixed fact.
Enter Derrick, Vedder, Stein, and villagers.
Derrick.
Come, Rip, we '11 have a rouse.
Rip.
Seriously; half fiercely still.
Here, Nick Vedder, here is the gelt; wipe off
my score, and drink away. I don't join you; I
swore off.
Nick.
Why, Rip, you 're king of the feast.
74
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Rip.
Absently. Still intent on Derrick,
Am I dat?
OmneSo
Swore off? What for?
Rip.
I don't touch another drop.
Jacob Stein.
Coming down towards Rip with cup.
Come, Rip, take a glass.
Rip.
Turning on him, almost angry.
Jacob Stein, you hear what I said?
Stein.
Yes.
Rip.
Firmly.
Well, when I said a thing, I mean it.
Leans back in chair with his hands behind
his head.
Stein.
Oh, very well.
Turns away; Nick comes down and holds
cup under Rip's nose. Rip looks to see
if they are watching him. He can resist
no longer, and takes the cup.
RIP VAN WINKLE.
75
Rip.
Laughing.
Well, I won't count this one. Here's your
good health and your families', may they all live
long and prosper.
Derrick.
Here come the fiddlers and the girls.
Enter girls.
Rip walks over and closes the shutter which
has held his score, then returns and seats
himself on a low stool, and keeps time to
the music as the villagers dance.
Finally, the rhythm fires his blood. He
jumps to his feet, snatches one of the
girls away from her partner, and whirls
into the dance. After a round or two,
he lets go of her, and pirouettes two
or three times by himself. Once more
he catches her in his arms, and is in
the act of embracing her, when he per¬
ceives Gretchen over her shoulder. He
drops the girl, who falls on her knees at
Gretchen's feet. There is a general laugh
at his discomfiture, in which he joins half¬
heartedly. As the curtain descends. Rip
is seen pointing at the girl as if seeking,
like a modern Adam, to put the blame
on her.
Scene in the Catshill Mountains,
From Painting by Joseph Jefi'erson,
ACT II.
Scene i.
The dimly lighted kitchen of Rip^s cottage.
The door and window are at the back.
It is night, and through the window a
furious storm can be seen raging, with
thunder, lightning, and rain.
A fire smoulders on the hearth, to the right,
and a candle gutters on the table in the
centre; a couple of chairs, a low stool,
and a little cupboard, meagrely provided
with cups and platters, complete the furni¬
ture of the room. Between the door and
the window a clothes-horse, with a few
garments hanging on it, forms a screen.
To the left is a small door leading to the
other rooms of the cottage.
As the curtain rises, Meenie is seen sitting
by the window, and Gretchen enters, takes
off cloak, and throws a broomstick on the
table.
Gretchen.
Meenie! Has your father come yet?
Meenie.
No, mother.
Gretchen.
So much the better for him. Never let him
show his face in these doors again — never !
So
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Meente.
Oh, mother, don't be so hard on him.
gretchen.
I'm not hard ; how dare you say so.
' Meenie approaches her.
There, child, that father of yours is enough
to spoil the temper of an angel. I went down
to the marsh to drive up the bull. I don't know
what Rip has been doing to the beast ; he was
howling and tearing about. I barely escaped
with my life.
A crash outside.
What noise is that?
Meente.
That's only Schneider, father's dog.
Gretchen.
Picking up broomstick.
Then, I '11 Schneider him. I won't have him
here.
Exit through the door leading to the rest of
the cottage.
Out, you idle, vagabond cur; out, I say!
Meente.
Following her to the door, and crying.
Oh, don't, don't hurt the poor thing !
Re-enter Gretchen.
RIP VAN WINKLE.
8i
Gretchen.
He jumped out of the window before I could
catch him. He's just like his master. Now,
what are you crying for?
meenie.
Because my poor father is out in all this rain.
A peal of thunder is heard.
Hark, how it thunders !
Gretchen.
Serve him right — do him good. Is the sup¬
per ready?
Meente.
'Yes, mother; it is there by the fireside.
Pointing to a soup-bowl by the fire.
Shall I lay the table?
Gretchen.
Yes.
Again it thunders.
It's a dreadful night; I wonder where Rip is?
Meente.
Bringing the cups and platters from the
sideboard, together with a loaf of bread.
Shall I lay the table for two, mother, or for
three?
6
82
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Gretchen.
For two, girl; he gets no supper here to-night.
Another peal of thunder.
Mercy, how the storm rages ! The fool, to
RIP VAN WINKLE.
83
stop out in such a down-pour. I hope he's
found shelter. I must look out the old suit I
washed and mended for him last week, and put
them by the fire to air. The idiot, to stop out
in such a down-pour ! I '11 have him sick on
my hands next; that's all I want to complete
my misery.
She fetches clothes from the horse, and
hangs them on the back of the chair in
front of the fire.
He knows what I am suffering now, and that's
what keeps him out.
Lightning.
Mercy, what a flash that was ! The wretch
will be starved with the cold ! Meenie !
Meenie.
Yes, mother.
Gretchen.
You may lay the table for three.
There is a knock at the outer door.
There he is now !
Enter Hendrick, who shakes the rain from
his hat.
Where's Rip? Is he not at your father's?
Hendrick.
No ; I thought he was here.
84
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Gretchen.
He gone back to the mountain. He's done
it on purpose to spite me.
Hendrick.
Going to the fire.
Shall I run after him, and bring him home?
I know the road ; we Ve often climbed it
together.
Gretchen.
No; I drove Rip from his house, and it's for
me to bring him back again.
Meente.
Still arranging the supper-table.
But, mother —
She pauses, with embarrassment.
If he hears your voice behind him, he will only
run away the faster.
Gretchen.
I
Well, I can't help it; I can't rest under cover,
while he is out in the storm. I shall feel better
when I'm outside sharing the storm with him.
Sit down, and take your suppers. I '11 take my
cloak along with me.
Exit. Meenie has seated herself by the
window. Hendrick carries stool to the
centre of the stage, in front of the table.
RIP VAN WINKLE. 85
Hendrick.
Meenie ! Meenie !
Meenie.
Eh?
Hendrick beckons to her. She runs to him.
He stops her suddenly, then puts the
stool down with great deliberation, and
sits on it, while Meenie kneels beside
him.
Hendrick.
In a very solemn tone.
I hope your father ain't gone to the mountains
to-night, Meenie?
Meenie.
In distress.
Oh, dear ! he will die of the cold there.
Hendrick.
Suddenly.
Sh!
Meenie starts.
It ain't for that
Mysteriously.
I've just heard old Clausen, over at father's,
saying, that on this very night, every twenty
years, the ghosts —
Meenie.
The what?
Catching his wrist.
86
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Hendrick.
In an awed tone.
The ghosts of Hendrick Hudson, and his
pirate crew, visit the Kaatskills above here.
The two children look around, frightened.
Meenie.
Oh, dear! did he say so?
Hendrick.
Shi
Again they look around, frightened.
RIP VAN WINKLE.
87
Yes; and the spirits have been seen there
smoking, drinking, and playing at tenpins.
Meenie.
Oh, how dreadful !
Hendrick.
Sh!
He goes cautiously to the chimney, and
looks up, while Meenie looks under the
table ; then, he returns to the stool,
speaking as he comes.
Yes; and every time that Hendrick Hudson
lights his pipe there's a flash of lightning.
Lightning, and Meenie gives a gasp of fear.
And when he rolls the balls along, there is a
peal of thunder.
Loud rumble of thunder. Meenie screams,
and throws herself into Hendrick's arms.
Don't be frightened, Meenie ; I'm here.
Ina frightened tone, but with a manly effort
to be courageous.
Re-enter Gretchen with her cloak.
Gretchen.
Here, stop that!
The children separate quickly. Hendrick
looks up at the ceiling and whistles,
with an attempt at unconsciousness, and
Meenie assumes an innocent and uncon¬
cerned expression.
88
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Now, don't you be filling that child's head with
nonsense, but remain quietly here until I return.
Hush, what noise is that?
There is some one out¬
side the window.
She steps behind the
clothes-horse. Rip ap¬
pears at the window,
which he opens, and
leans against the frame.
Rip.
Meenie !
Meenie and Hendrick.
Trying to make him per¬
ceive Gretchen, by a
gesture in her direc¬
tion.
Sh!
Rip turns, and looks a-
round outside to see
what they mean, then,
discovering nothing,
drops his hat in at
the window, and calls
again, cautiously.
Rip.
Meenie !
Sh!
RIP VAN WINKLE. 89
Meenie and Hendrick.
With the same warning gesture.
Gretchen shakes her fist at the children,
who assume an air of innocence.
Rip.
What's the matter? Meenie, has the wild¬
cat come home?
Rip reaches in after his hat. Gretchen
catches him by his hair, and holds his
head down.
Och, my darlin', don't do that, eh !
Hendrick and Meenie.
Who run towards Gretchen.
Don't, mother ! Don't, mother ! Don't !
Rip.
Imitating their tone.,
Don't, mother, don't ! Don't you hear the
children? Let go my head, won't you?
Getting angry.
Gretchen.
Still holding his head down.
No ; not a hair.
Rip.
Bantering.
Hold on to it then, what do I care?
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Hendrick and Meenie.
Catching Gretchen's dress.
Don't, mother ! Don't, mother ! Don't !
Gretchen lets go of Rip, and turns upon
them. They escape, and disappear through
the door to the left.
Rip.
Getting in through the window, and coming
forward, apparently drunk, but jolly ; and
his resentment for the treatment he has
just received is half humourous.
For what you do dat, hey? You must want
a bald-headed husband, I reckon !
Gretchen picks up chair, and bangs it down;
Rip imitates her with the stool. She sits
down, angrily, and slaps the table. Rip
throws down his felt hat with a great
show of violence, and it makes no noise,
then seats himself on the stool.
\ >
Gretchen.
Now, then !
RiP.
Now, den ; I don't like it den, neider.
When Rip is drunk, his dialect grows more
pronounced.
Gretchen.
Who did you call a wildcat?
RIP VAN WINKLE. 91
Rip.
With a sudden little tipsy laugh, and con¬
fused.
A wildcat — dat's when I come in at the
window?
Gretchen.
Yes; that's when you came in the window.
Rip.
Rising, and with a tone of finality.
Yes ; that's the time I said it.
Gretchen.
Yes; and that's the time I heard it.
Rip.
With drunken assurance.
That's all right ; I was afraid you would n't
hear it.
Gretchen.
Now, who did you mean by that wildcat?
Rip.
Confused.
Who did I mean? Now, let me see.
Gretchen.
Yes; who did you mean?
92
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Rip.
How do I know who-oo I mean?
With a sudden inspiration.
Maybe, it's the dog Schneider, I call that.
Gretchen.
Incredulously.
The dog Schneider; that's not likely.
Rip.
Argumentatively.
Of course it is likely; he's my dog. I'll
call him a wildcat much as I please.
Conclusively.
He sits down in the chair on which his
clothes are warming, in front of the fire.
Gretchen.
And then, there's your disgraceful conduct
this morning. What have you got to say to
that?
,. . Rip.
How do I know what I got to say to that,
when I don't know what I do-a, do-a?
Hiccoughs.
Gretchen.
Don't know what you do-a-oo ! Hugging
and kissing the girls, before my face; you
thought I would n't see you.
RIP VAN WINKLE.
95
Rip.
Boldly.
I knowed you would — I knowed you would;
because, because —
Losing the thread of his discourse.
Oh-h, don' you bodder me.
He turns, and leans his head against the
back of the chair.
Gretchen.
You knew I was there?
Rip.
Laughing.
I thought I saw you.
Gretchen.
I saw you myself, dancing with the girl.
Rip.
You saw the girl dancin' mit me.
Gretchen remembers Rip's clothes, and goes
over to see if he is wet, and pushes him
towards the centre of the stage. Rip
mistakes her intention.
You want to pull some more hair out of my
head?
Gretchen.
Why, the monster ! He is n't wet a bit !
He's as dry as if he'd been aired !
96 RIP VAN WINKLE.
Rip.
Of course I'm dry.
Laughing.
I'm always dry — always dry.
Gretchen.
Examines game-bag, and pulls out a flask,
which she holds under Rip's nose.
Why, what's here? Why, it's a bottle — a
bottle !
Rip.
Leaning against the table.
Yes; it's a bottle.
Laughs.
You think I don't know a bottle when I
see it?
Gretchen.
That's pretty game for your game-bag, ain't
dt?
Rip.
Assuming an innocent air.
Somebody must have put it there.
Gretchen.
Putting the flask in her pocket.
Then, you don't get it again.
Rip.
With a show of anger.
Now mind if I don't get it again — well—all
there is about it —
RIP VAN WINKLE. 97
Breaking down.
I don't want it. I have had enough.
With a droll air of conviction.
Gretchen.
I'm glad you know when you Ve had enough.
Rip.
Still leaning against the table.
That's the way mit me. I'm glad I know
when I got enough —
Laughs.
An' I'm glad when I've got enough, too. Give
me the bottle ; I want to put it in the game-bag.
Gretchen.
For what?
Rip.
Lounging off the table, and coming forward
and leaning his arms on Gretchen's
shoulders.
So that I can't drink it. Here's the whole
business —
He slides his hand down to Gretchen's pocket,
and tries to find the bottle while he talks
to her.
Here's the whole business about it. What is
the use of anybody —well—wash the use of
anybody, anyhow — well— oh —
Missing the pocket.
7
98
RIP VAN WINKLE.
What you talkin' 'bout —
Suddenly his hand slips into her pocket, and
he begins to pull the bottle out, with great
satisfaction.
Now, now I can tell you all 'bout it.
Gretchen.
Discovering his tactics, and pushing him away.
Pshaw !
Rip.
If you don't give me the bottle, I just break
up everything in the house.
Gretchen.
If you dare !
Rip.
If I dare ! Have n't I done it two or three
times before? I just throw everything right out
of the window.
Rip throws the plates and cups on the floor,
and overturns a chair, and seats himself on
the table. Gretchen picks them up again.
Gretchen.
Don't, Rip; don't do that! Now stop, Rip,
stop !
Gretchen bangs down a chair by the table,
and seats herself.
Now, then, perhaps you will be kind enough to
tell where you've been for the last two days.
Where have you been? Do you hear?
RIP VAN WINKLE. 99
Rip.
Where I Ve been? Well, it's not my bottle,
anyhow. I borrowed that bottle from another
feller. You want to know where I been?
Gretchen.
Yes; and I will know.
Rip.
Good-humouredly.
Let me see. Last night I stopped out all
night.
Gretchen.
But why?
Rip.
Why? You mean the reason of it?
Gretchen.
Yes, the reason.
Rip.
Inconsequently.
The reason is why? Don't bother me.
Gretchen.
Emphasising each word with a bang on the
table.
Why — did — you — stop — out — all — night ?
Rip.
Imitating her tone.
Because — I — want — to — get — up — early
-— in — the — morning.
Hiccough.
lOO
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Come, don't get so mad mit a feller. Why,
I 've been fillin' my game-bag mit game.
Rip gets down off the table, and Gretchen
comes towards him and feels his game-bag.
Gretchen.
Your game-bag is full of game, isn't it?
Rip.
Taking her hand and holding it away from
her pocket.
That? Why, that would n't hold it.
Finding his way into Gretchen's pocket.
Now I can tell you all about it. You know
last night I stopped out all night —
Gretchen.
Yes ; and let me catch you again.
He is pulling the bottle out, when Gretchen
catches him, and slaps his hand.
You paltry thief!
. ' Rip.
Oh, you ain't got no confidence in me. Now
what do you think was the first thing I saw in
the morning?
Dragging a chair to the front of the stage.
Gretchen.
I don't know. What?
RIP VAN WINKLE.
lOl
Rip.
Seating himself.
A rabbit.
Gretchen.
Pleased.
I like a rabbit. I like it in a stew.
Rip.
Looking at her, amused.
I guess you like everything in a stew — every¬
thing what's a rabbit I mean. Well, there was a
rabbit a-feedin mit the grass, — you know they
always come out early in der mornin' and feed
mit the grass ?
Gretchen.
Never mind the grass. Go on.
Rip.
Don't get so patient; you wait till you get the
rabbit.
Humourously.
Well, I crawl up —
Gretchen.
Yes, yes !
Rip.
Becoming interested in his own powers of
invention.
An' his little tail was a-stickin' up so —■
With a gesture of his forefinger.
I02
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Gretchen.
Impatiently.
Never mind his tail. Go on.
Rip.
Remonstrating at her interruption.
The more fatter the rabbit, the more whiter is
his tail —
Gretchen.
Well, well, go on.
Rip.
Taking aim.
Well, I haul up —
Gretchen.
Yes, yes !
Rip.
And his ears was a-stickin' up so —
Making the two ears with his two forefingers.
Gretchen.
Never mind his ears. Go on.
Rip.
I pull the trigger.
Gretchen.
Eagerly.
Bang went the gun, and —
RIP VAN WINKLE. 103
Rip.
And the rabbit run away.
Gretchen.
And so you shot nothing ?
Seriously.
Angrily.
Rip.
How will I shot him when he run away?
He laughs at her disappointment.
There, don't get so mad mit a feller. Now I'm
going to tell you what I did shot ; that's what I
didn't shot. You know that old forty-acre field
of ours?
Gretchen.
Scornfully.
Ours ! Ours, did you say?
Rip.
Shamefacedly.
You know the one I mean well enough. It
used to be ours.
Gretchen.
Regretfully.
Yes ; it used, indeed !
Rip.
It ain't ours now, is it?
I04
RIP VAN WINKLE
Gretchen.
Sighing.
No, indeed, it is not.
Rip.
No? Den I wouldn't bodder about it. Better
let somebody bodder about that field what belongs
to it. Well, in that field dere's a pond; and
what do you think I see in that pond?
Gretchen.
I don't know. Ducks?
Rip.
Ducks ! More an' a thousand.
Gretchen.
Walking to where broomstick is.
More than a thousand ducks?
Rip.
I haul up again —
Gretchen.
Picking up broomstick.
Yes, and so will I. And if you miss fire this
time —
She holds it threateningly over Rip's shoulder.
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Rip.
Looking at it askance out of the corner of
his eye, then putting up his hand and
pushing it aside.
You will scare the ducks mit that. Well, I
take better aim this time as I did before. I pull
the trigger, and — bang !
Gretchen.
How many down?
Rip.
Indifferently.
One.
Gretchen.
Indignantly.
What! only one duck out of a thousand?
Rip.
Who said one duck?
Gretchen.
You did.
Rip.
Getting up, and leaning on the back of the
chair.
I did n't say anything of the kind.
Gretchen.
You said ^'one."
Rip.
Ah I One. But I shot more as one duck.
io6
RIP VAN WINKLE.
With a vain appeal to her sense of humour.
the bull was a-comin', and I was a-goin. Well,
he chased me across the field. I tried to climb
over the fence so fast what I could, —
Doubles up with his silent laugh.
Gretchen.
Did you?
Rip.
Crosses over, and sits on the low stool, and
laughs silently.
I shot our old bull.
Gretchen flings down
the broomstick,
and throws her¬
self into the chair
at the right of the
table, in dumb
rage.
I didn't kill him.
I just sting him, you
know. Well, then
the bull come right
after me ; and I come
right away from him.
O Gretchen, how you
would laugh if you
could see that —
RIP VAN WINKLE.
T07
an' the bull come up an' save me the trouble of
that. Well, then, I rolled over on the other side.
Gretchen.
With disgust.
And then you went fast asleep for the rest of
the day.
Rip.
That's a fact. That's a fact.
Gretchen.
Bursting into tears, and burying her head in
her arms on the table.
0 Rip, you '11 break my heart! You will.
Rip.
Now she gone crying mit herself! Don't cry,
Gretchen, don't cry. My d-a-r-l-i-n', don't cry.
' Gretchen.
Angrily.
1 will cry !
Rip.
Cry'way as much you like. What do I care?
All the better soon as a woman gets cryin' ; den
all the danger's over.
Rip goes to Gretchen, leans over, and puts
his arm around her.
io8
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Gretchen, don't cry; my angel, don't.
He succeeds in getting his hand into her
pocket, and steals the bottle.
Don't cry, my daarlin'.
Humourously.
Gretchen, won't you give me a little drop out
of that bottle what you took away from me?
RIP VAN WINKLE. 109
He sits on the table, just behind her, and
takes a drink from the bottle.
Gretchen.
Here's a man drunk, and asking for more.
Rip.
I was n't. I swore off.
Coaxingly.
You give me a little drop, an' I won't count it.
Gretchen.
Sharply.
No!
Rip.
Drinking again.
Well, den, here's your good health, an' your
family, and may they live long and prosper !
Puts bottle in his bag.
Gretchen.
You unfeeling brute. Your wife's starving.
And, Rip, your child's in rags.
Rip.
Holding up his coat, and heaving a sigh of
resignation.
Well, I'm the same way; you know dat.
Gretchen.
Sitting up, and looking appealingly at Rip.
Oh, Rip, if you would only treat me kindly I
no
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Rip.
Putting his arms around her.
Well, den, I will. I'm going to treat you
kind. I '11 treat you kind.
Gretchen.
Why, it would add ten years to my life.
Rip.
Over her shoulder, and after a pause.
That's a great inducement; it is, my darlin'.
I know I treat you too bad, an' you deserve to
be a widow.
Gretchen.
Getting up, and putting her arms on Rip's
shoulders.
Oh, Rip, if you would only reform !
Rip.
Well, den, I will. I won't touch another drop
so long what I live.
Gretchen.
Can I trust you?
Rip.
You must n't suspect me.
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Ill
Gretchen.
Embracing him.
There, then, I will trust you.
She takes the candle, and goes to fetch the
children.
Here, Hendrick, Meenie. Children, where are
you?
Exit through the door on the left.
Rip.
Seats himself in the chair to the right of the
table, and takes out flask.
Well, it's too bad ; but it's all a woman's fault
any way. When a man gets drinkin' and that,
they ought to let him alone. So soon as they
scold him, he goes off like a sky-rocket.
Re-enter Gretchen and the children.
Gretchen.
Seeing the flask in Rip's hand.
I thought as much.
Rip.
Unconscious of her presence.
How I did smooth her down ! I must drink
her good health. Gretchen, here's your good
health.
About to drink.
112
RIP VAN WINKLE
Gretchen.
Snatching the bottle, and using it to gesticu¬
late with.
Oh, you paltry thief!
Rip.
Concerned for the schnapps.
What you doin'? You'll spill the licker out
of the bottle.
He puts in the cork.
Gretchen.
Examining the flask.
Why, the monster, he's emptied the bottle !
Rip.
That's a fac'. That's a fac'.
Gretchen.
Throwing down the flask.
Then that is the last drop you drink under my
roof!
Rip.
What ! What !
Meenie approaches her father on tiptoe, and
kneels beside him.
Gretchen.
Out, you drunkard ! Out, you sot
disgrace to your wife and to your child
house is mine.
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Rip.
Dazed, and a little sobered.
Yours! Yours!'
Gretchen.
Raising her voice above the storm, which
seems to rage more fiercely outside.
Yes, mine, mine ! Had it been yours to sell, it
would have gone along with the rest of your
land. Out, then, I say —
Pushing open the door,
for you have no longer any share in me or mine.
A peal of thunder.
Meente.
Running over, and kneeling by Gretchen.
Oh, mother, hark at the storm 1
Gretcpien.
Pushing her aside.
Begone man, can't you speak ? Are you struck
dumb ? You sleep no more under my roof.
Rip.
Who has not moved, even his arm remaining
outstretched, as it was when Meenie slipped
from his side, murmurs in a bewildered,
incredulous way.
Why, Gretchen, are you goin' to turn me out
like a dog?
8
114 RIP VAN WINKLE.
Gretchen points to the door. Rip lises and
leans against the table with a groan. His
conscience speaks.
Well, maybe you are right
His voice breaks, and with a despairing
gesture.
I have got no home. I will go. But mind,
Gretchen, after what you say to me to-night, I
can never darken your door again — never —
Going towards the door.
I will go.
Hendrick.
Running to Rip.
Not into the storm. Rip. Hark, how it
thunders !
Rip.
Putting his arm round him.
Yah, my boy; but not as bad to me as the
storm in my home. I will go.
At the door by this time.
I
Meente.
Catching Rip's coat.
No, father, don't go !
Rip.
Bending over her tenderly, and holding her
close to him.
My child ! Bless you, my child, bless you !
Meenie faints. Rip gives a sobbing sigh.
''No ; you have driven me from your housed
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Gretchen.
Relenting.
No, Rip — I —
Rip.
Waving her off.
No; you have drive me from your house. You
have opened the door for me to go. You may
never open it for me to come back.
Leans against the doorpost, overcome by his
emotion. His eye rests on Meenie, who
lies at his feet.
You say I have no share in this house.
Points to Meenie in profound despair.
Well, see, then, I wipe the disgrace from your
door.
He staggers out into the storm.
Gretchen.
No, Rip ! Husband, come back !
Gretchen faints, and the curtain falls.
Scene in the Catskill MountainSo
From Painting- by Joseph Jefferson,
ACT III.
Scene i.
A steep and rocky clove in the Kaatskill
Mountains, down which rushes a torrent,
swollen by the storm. Overhead, the hem¬
locks stretch their melancholy boughs. It
is night. Rip enters, almost at a run,
with his head down, and his coat-collar
turned up, beating his way against the
storm. With the hunter's instinct, he pro¬
tects the priming of his gun with the
skirt of his jacket. Having reached a
comparatively level spot, he pauses for
breath, and turns to see what has become
of his dog.
Rip.
Whistling to the dog.
Schneider! Schneider! What's the matter
with Schneider? Something must have scared
that dog. There he goes head over heels down
I
the hill. Well; here I am again— another night
in the mountains ! Heigho ! these old trees
begin to know me, I reckon.
Taking off his hat.
How are you, old fellows? Well, I like the
trees, they keep me from the wind and the rain,
and they never blow me up ; and when I lay me
I20
RIP VAN WINKLE
down on the broad of my back, they seem to
bow their heads to me, an' say: Go to sleep.
Rip, go to sleep.
Lightning.
My, what a flash that was ! Old Hendrick
Hudson's lighting his pipe in the mountains
to-night ; now, we '11 hear him roll the big balls
along.
Thunder.
Rip looks back over the path he has come,
and whistles again for his dog.
Well, I — no — Schneider! No; whatever it
is, it's on two legs. Why, what a funny thing
is that a comin' up the hill? I thought nobody
but me ever come nigh this place.
Enter a strange dwarfish figure, clad all in
gray like a Dutch seaman of the seven¬
teenth century, in short-skirted doublet,
hose, and high-crowned hat drawn over
his eyes. From beneath the latter his
long gray beard streams down till it
almost touches the ground. He carries a
keg on his shoulder. He advances slowly
towards Rip, and, by his gesture, begs Rip
to set the keg down for him. Rip does
so, and the dwarf seats himself upon it.
Rip.
With good-humoured sarcasm.
Sit down, and make yourself comfortable.
A long pause and silence.
( (
What's the matter with Schneider ? "
From Painting, — the figure by F. Eugene Smith; the landscape
background by Joseph JetFerson.
RIP VAN WINKLE.
123
What? What's the matter? Ain't ye goin'
to speak to a feller? I don't want to speak to
you, then. Who you think you was, that I
want to speak to you, any more than you want
to speak to me; you hear what I say?
Rip pokes the dwarf in the ribs, who turns,
and looks up. Rip retreats hastily.
Donner an' Blitzen! What for a man is das?
I have been walking over these mountains ever
since I was a boy, an' I never saw a queer-
looking codger like that .before. He must be
an old sea-snake, I reckom- -'
The dwarf approaches Rip, and motions
Rip to help him up the mountain with
the keg.
Rip.
Well, why don't you say so, den? You
mean you would like me to help you up with
that keg?
The dwarf nods in the affirmative.
Well, sir, I don't do it.
The dwarf holds up his hands in supplica¬
tion.
No; there's no good you speakin' like that.
I never seed you before, did I ?
The dwarf shakes his head. Rip, with
great decision, walking away, and leaning
against a tree.
RIP VAN WINKLE.
I don't want to see you again, needer. What
have you got in that keg, schnapps?
The dwarf nods.
I don't believe you.
The dwarf nods more affirmatively.
Is it good schnapps?
The dwarf again insists.
Well, I '11 help you. Go 'long pick up my
gun, there, and I follow you mit that keg on my
shoulder. I '11 follow you, old broadchops.
As Rip shoulders the keg, a furious blast
whirls up the valley, and seems to carry
him and his demon companion before
it. The rain that follows blots out the
landscape. For a few moments, all is
darkness. Gradually, the topmost peak
of the Kaatskill Mountains becomes visi¬
ble, far above the storm. Stretching
below, the country lies spread out like a
map. A feeble and watery moonlight
shows us a weird group, gathered upon the
peak, — Hendrick Hudson, and his ghostly
, crew. In the foreground, one of them
poises a ball, about to bowl it, while the
others lean forward in attitudes of watch¬
ful expectancy. Silently he pitches it;
and, after a momentary pause, a long
and rumbling peal of thunder reverberates
among the valleys belpw.
At this moment, the demon, carrying Rip's
gun, appears over the crest of the peak
in the background, and Rip toils after
RIP VAN WINKLE.
127
with the keg on his shoulder. Arrived at
the summit, he drops the keg on his knee,
and gasps for breath.
Rip.
Glancing out over the landscape.
I say, old gentleman, I never was so high up
in the mountains before. Look down into the
valley there ; it seems more as a mile. I —
Turning to speak to his companion, and
perceiving another of the crew.
You 're another feller !
The second demon nods assent.
You're that other chap's brother?
The demon again assents. Rip carries the
keg a little further, and comes face to
face with a third.
Rip.
You're another brother?
The third demon nods assent. Rip takes
another step, and perceives Hendrick Hud¬
son in the centre, surrounded by many
demons.
You're his old gran'father?
Hudson nods. Rip puts down the keg in
perplexity, not untinged with alarm.
Donner and Blitzen ! here's the whole family;
I'm a dead man to a certainty.
128
RIP VAN WINKLE.
The demons extend their arms to Hudson,
as if inquiring what they should do. He
points to Rip, they do the same.
Rip.
My, my, I suppose they 're speakin' about
me !
Looking at his gun, which the first demon
has deposited on the ground, and which
lies within his reach.
No good shootin' at 'em; family's too big
for one gun.
Hendrick Hudson advances, and seats him¬
self on the keg facing Rip. The demons
slowly surround the two.
Rip.
Looking about him with growing apprehension.
My, my, I don't like that kind of people at
all ! No, sir ! I don't like any sech kind. I
like that old gran'father worse than any of
them.
' With a sheepish attempt to be genial, and
appear at his ease.
How you was, old gentleman? I did n't mean
to intrude on you, did I?
Hudson shakes his head.
What?
No reply.
I '11 tell you how it was ; I met one of your
gran'children, I don't know which is the one —
Glancing around.
RIP VAN WINKLE.
129
They're all so much alike. Well —
Embarrassed, and looking at one demon.
That's the same kind of a one. Any way
this one, he axed me to help him up the
mountain mit dat keg. Well, he was an old
feller, an' I thought I would help him.
Pauses, troubled by their silence.
Was I right to help him?
Hudson nods.
I say, was I right to help him?
Hudson nods again.
If he was here, he would yust tell you the
same thing any way, because —
Suddenly perceiving the demon he had met
below.
Why, dat's the one; ain't it?
The demon nods.
Yes; dat is the one, dat's the same kind of
a one da.t I met. Was I right to come?
Hudson nods approval.
I didn't want to come here, anyhow; no, sir,
I did n't want to come to any such kind of a
place.
After a pause, seeing that no one has any¬
thing to say.
I guess I better go away from it.
Rip picks up his gun, and is about to return
by the way he came ; but the demons raise
9
I30 RIP VAN WINKLE.
their hands threateningly, and stop him.
He puts his gun down again.
I did n't want to come here, anyhow —
Grumbling to himself, then pulling him¬
self together with an effort, and facing
Hudson.
Well, old gentleman, if you mean to do me
any harm, just speak it right out —
Then with a little laugh.
Oh ! I will die game —
Glancing round for a means of escape, and
half to himself.
If I can't run away.
Hudson extends a cup to Rip, as if inviting
him to drink.
Rip.
Doubtfully,
You want me to drink mit you?
Hudson nods. Rip approaches him cau-
^ tiously, unable to resist the temptation of
a drink.
Well, I swore off drinkin' ; but as this is the
first time I see you, I won't count this one —
He takes the cup. Hudson holds up an¬
other cup. Rip is reassured, and his old
geniality returns.
You drink mit me? We drink mit one
another?
RIP VAN WINKLE.
133
Hudson nods affirmatively. Rip feels at
home under these familiar circumstances,
and becomes familiar and colloquial again.
What's the matter mit you, old gentleman,
anyhow? You go and make so
Imitating the demon,
mit your head every time ; was you deaf ?
Hudson shakes his head.
Oh, nein.
Laughing at his error.
If you was deaf, you would n't hear what I
was sayin'. Was you dumb ?
Hudson nods yes.
So? You was dumb?
Hudson nods again.
Has all of your family the same complaint?
Hudson nods.
All the boys dumb, hey? All the boys dumb.
All the demons nod. Then, suddenly, as if
struck with an idea.
Have you got any girls?
Hudson shakes his head.
t ■■
Don't you? Such a big family, and all boys?
Hudson nods.
Rip.
With profound regret.
That's a pity; my, that's a pity. Oh, my,
if you had some dumb girls, what wives they
would make —
Brightening up.
134
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Well, old gentleman, here's your good health,
and all your family —
Turning, and waving to them.
may they live long and prosper.
Rip drinks. As he does so, all the demons
lean forward, watching the effect of the
liquor. Rip puts his hand to his head.
The empty cup falls to the ground.
Rip.
In an awed and ecstatic voice.
What for licker is that !
As he turns, half reeling, he sees Hudson
holding out to him another cup. He
snatches it with almost frantic eagerness.
Rip.
Give me another one !
He empties it at a draught. A long pause
follows, during which the effect of the
liquor upon Rip becomes apparent; the
light in his eyes fades, his exhilaration dies
out, and he loses his grasp on the reality
' - of his surroundings. Finally, he clasps
his head with both hands, and cries in a
muffled, terrified voice.
Rip.
Oh, my, my head was so light, and now,
it *s heavy as lead !
He reels, and falls heavily to the ground.
A long pause. The demons begin to
RIP VAN WINKLE. 135
disappear. Rip becomes dimly conscious
of this, and raises himself on his elbow.
Rip.
Are you goin' to leave me, boys ? Are you
goin' to leave me all alone? Don't leave me;
don't go away.
With a last effort.
I will drink your good health, and your
family's —
He falls back heavily, asleep.
[curtain.]
Scene in the Catshill Mountains.
From Painting by Joseph Jefferson,
ACT IV,
Scene i.
As the curtain rises, the same high peaks of
the Kaatskills, and the far-stretching valley
below, are disclosed in the gray light of
dawn.
Rip is still lying on the ground, as in the last
act ; but he is no longer the Rip we knew.
His hair and beard are long and white,
bleached by the storms that have rolled
over his head during the twenty years he
has been asleep.
As he stirs and slowly rises to a half-sitting
posture, we see that his former picturesque
rags have become so dilapidated that it is
a matter of marvel how they hold together.
They have lost all traces of colour, and
have assumed the neutral tints of the moss
and lichens that cover the rocks.
His voice, when he first speaks, betrays even
more distinctly than his appearance the
lapse of time. Instead of the full round
tones of manhood, he speaks in the high
treble of feeble old age. His very hands
have grown old and weatherbeaten.
Rip.
Staring vacantly around.
I wonder where I was. On top of the Kaat-
skill Mountains as sure as a gun ! Won't my wife
I40 RIP VAN WINKLE.
give it to me for stopping out all night? I must
get up and get home with myself.
Trying to rise.
Oh, I feel very bad ! Vat is the matter with
my elbow?
In trying to rub it, the other one gives hira
such a twinge that he cries out.
Oh ! The other elbow is more badder than
the other one. I must have cotched the rheuma-
tix a-sleepin' mit the wet grass.
He rises with great difficulty.
Och ! I never had such rheumatix like that.
He feels himself all over, and then stands for
a moment pondering, and bewildered by a
strange memory.
RIP VAN WINKLE. 141
I was n't sleeping all the time, needer. I know
I met a queer kind of a man, and we got drinkin',
and I guess I got pretty drunk. Well, I must
pick up my gun, and get home mit myself.
142 RIP VAN WINKLE.
After several painful attempts, he succeeds in
picking up his gun, which drops all to
pieces as he lifts it. Rip looks at it in
amazement.
My gun must have cotched the rheumatix
too. Now that's too bad. Them fellows have
gone and stole my good gun, and leave me this
rusty old barrel.
Rip begins slowly to climb over the peak
towards the path by which he had ascended,
his memory seeming to act automatically.
When he reaches the highest point, where
he can look out over the valley, he stops in
surprise.
Why, is that the village of Falling Waters that
I see? Why, the place is more than twice the
size it was last night. I —
He sinks down.
I don't know whether I am dreaming, or sleep¬
ing, or waking.
Then pulling himself together with a great
effort, and calling up the image of his wife
to act as whip and spur to his waning pow¬
ers, he says, with humourous conviction, as
he gets up painfully again : —
I go home to my wife. She '11 let me know
whether I'm asleep or awake or not.
Almost unable to proceed.
RIP VAN WINKLE
145
I don't know if I will ever get home, my k-nees
are so stiff. My backbone, it's broke already.
As the curtain falls, Rip stands leaning on
the barrel of his gun as on a staff, with
one hand raised, looking out over the valley.
Scene ii.
A comfortable-looking room in Derrick's
house. As the curtain rises, Meenie and
Gretchen enter. Meenie is a tall young
woman of twenty-six, and Gretchen is a
matronly figure with white hair. They are
well dressed, and have every appearance of
physical and material prosperity.
Gretchen.
I am sent to you by your father, Meenie.
Meenie.
Oh, don't call him- so; he is not my father!
He is your husband, mother; but I owe him no
love. And his cruel treatment of you —
Gretchen.
Hush, child ! Oh, if he heard you, he would
make me pay for every disrespectful word you
utter.
10
146
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Meenie.
Yes; he would beat you, starve and degrade
you. You are not his wife, mother, but his
menial.
gretchen.
My spirit is broken, Meenie. I cannot resent
it. Nay, I deserve it; for as Derrick now treats
me, so I treated your poor father when he was
alive.
Meenie.
You, mother? You, so gentle ? You, who are
weakness and patience itself?
Gretchen.
Yes; because for fifteen years I have been
Derrick's wife. But it was my temper, my
cruelty, that drove your father from our home
twenty years ago. You were too young then to
remerpber him.
Meente.
No, mother, I recollect my dear father taking
me on his knee, and saying to Hendrick that I
should be his wife; and I promised I would.
Gretchen.
Poor Rip ! Poor, good-natured, kind creature
that he was ! How gently he bore with me ; and
RIP VAN WINKLE.
147
I drove him like a dog from his home. I hunted
him into the mountains, where he perished of
hunger or cold, or a prey to some wild beast.
Meenie.
Don't cry, mother !
Enter Derrick, now grown old and bent over
his cane, and infinitely more disagreeable
than before. He, too, has thriven, and is
dressed in a handsome full suit of black
silk.
Derrick.
Snivelling again, eh? Teaching that girl of
yours to be an obstinate hypocrite?
Meente.
Oh, sir, she —
Derrick.
Hold your tongue, miss. Speak when you 're
spoken to. I '11 have you both to understand that
there's but one master here. Well, mistress,
have you told her my wishes ; and is she pre¬
pared to obey them?
Gretchen.
Indeed, sir, I was trying to —
Derrick.
Beating about the bush, prevaricating, and
sneaking, as you usually do.
148
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Meenie.
If you have made her your slave, you must
expect her to cringe.
Derrick.
Approaching her threateningly.
What's that?
Gretchen.
Meenie ! Meenie ! For Heaven's sake, do not
anger him !
Derrick.
Raising his cane.
She had better not.
Meenie.
Defiantly.
Take care how you raise your hand to me, for
I '11 keep a strict account of it. And when Hen-
drick comes back from sea, he '11 make you smart
for it, I promise you.
I '
Derrick.
Is the girl mad?
Meenie.
He thrashed your nephew once for being inso¬
lent to me. Go and ask him how Hendrick pays
my debts ; and then when you speak to me you '11
mind your stops.
RIP VAN WINKLE. 149
Derrick.
To Gretchen.
Oh, you shall pay for this !
Gretchen.
No, Derrick, indeed, indeed I have not urged
her to this ! O Meenie, do not speak so to him;
for my sake forbear !
Meente.
For your sake, yes, dear mother. I forgot
that he could revenge himself on you.
150
RIP VAN WINKLE
Derrick.
As for your sailor lover, Hendrick Vedder,
I Ve got news of him at last. His ship, the
" Mayflower," was lost, three years ago, off Cape
Horn.
Meente.
No, no. Not lost?
Derrick.
If you doubt it, there's the Shipping Ga¬
zette," in on my offlce table. You can satisfy
yourself that your sailor bully has gone to the
bottom.
Gretchen.
Oh, sir, do not convey the news to her so
cruelly.
Derrick.
That's it. Because I don't sneak and trick and
lie about it, I'm cruel. The man's dead, has
been dead and gone these two years or more.
The time of mourning is over. Am I going to
be nice about it this time of day?
Meente.
Then all my hope is gone, gone forever !
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Derrick.
So much the better for you. Hendrick's
whole fortune was invested in that ship. So
there's an end of him and your expectations.
Now you are free, and a beggar. My nephew
has a fancy for you. He will have a share of my
business now, and my money when — when I
die.
Gretchen.
Do not ask her to decide now !
Derrick.
Why not? If she expects to make a better
bargain by holding off, she's mistaken.
Gretchen.
How can you expect her to think of a husband
at this moment?
Derrick.
Don't I tell you the other one is dead these
two years?
Gretchen.
Leading Meenie away
Come, my child. Leave her to me, sir; I will
try and persuade her.
152
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Derrick.
Take care that you do ; for if she don't consent
to accept my offer, she shall pack bag and bag¬
gage out of this house. Aye, this very day !
Not a penny, not a stitch of clothes but what
she has on her back, shall she have ! Oh, I've
had to deal with obstinate women before now,
and I've taken them down before I've done
with them. You know who I mean? Do you
know who I mean? Stop. Answer me! Do
you know who I mean ?
Gretchen.
Submissively.
Yes. sir.
Derrick.
Then why did n't you say so before? Sulky,
I suppose. There, you may be off.
Exeunt.
RIP VAN WINKLE.
153
Scene hi.
The village of Falling Waters, which has
grown to be a smart and flourishing
town, but whose chief features remain
unchanged.
To the left, as of yore, is the inn, bearing
scarcely any mark of the lapse of time,
save that the sign of George III. has
been replaced by a portrait of George
Washington. To the right, where Rip's
cottage used to stand, nothing remains,
however, but the blackened and crumbling
ruins of a chimney. A table and chairs
stand in front of the Inn porch.
Into this familiar scene Rip makes his
entrance, but not as before, — in glee, with
the children clinging about him. Faint,
weak, and weary he stumbles along,
followed by a jeering, hooting mob of
villagers ; while the children hide from
him in fear, behind their elders. His
eyes look dazed and uncomprehending,
and he catches at the back of a chair
as if in need of physical as well as mental
support.
Katchen.
As Rip enters.
Why, what queer looking creature is this,
that ail the boys are playing —
Seth.
Why, he looks as though he'd been dead
for fifty years, and dug up again !
154 RIP VAN WINKLE.
Rip.
My friends, Kanst du Deutsch sprechen?
First Villager.
I say, old fellow, you ain't seen anything of
an old butter-tub with no kiver on, no place
about here, have you?
RIP VAN WINKLE.
155
Rip.
Bewildered, but with simplicity.
What is that? I don't know who that is.
Second Villager.
I say, old man, who's your barber?
The crowd laughs, and goes off repeating,
" Who's your barber?" Some of the chil¬
dren remain to stare at Rip ; but when he
holds out his hand to them, they, too,
run off frightened.
Rip.
Who's my barber; what dey mean by dat?
Noticing his beard.
Whv, is that on me? I didn't see that
before. My beard and hair is so long and
white — Gretchen won't know me with that, when
she gets me home.
Looking towards the cottage.
Why, thè home''s gone away!
Rip becomes more and more puzzled, like
a man in a dream who sees unfamiliar
things amid familiar surroundings, and
cannot make out what has happened;
and as in a dream a man preserves his in¬
dividuality, so Rip stumbles along through
his bewilderment, exhibiting flashes of his
old humour, wit, and native shrewdness.
But with all this he never laughs.
156 RIP VAN WINKLE.
Seth.
I say, old man, hadn't you better go home
and get shaved?
Rip.
Looking about for the voice.
What ?
Seth.
Here, this way. Had n't you better go home
and get shaved?
Rip.
My wife will shave me when she gets me
home. Is this the village of '' Falling Waters,"
where we was?
Seth.
Yes.
Rip.
Still more puzzled, not knowing his face.
Do you live here?
> • Seth.
Well, rather. I was born here.
Rip.
Then you live here?
Seth.
Well, rather; of course I do.
Reflectively.
RIP VAN WINKLE. 157
Rip.
Feeling that he has hold of something
certain.
Do you know where I live?
Seth.
No; but I should say you belong to Noah's
Ark.
Rip.
Putting his hand to his ear.
That I belong mit vas ?
Seth.
Noah's Ark.
Rip.
Very much hurt.
Why will you say such thing like that?
Then, with a flash of humour, and drawing
his beard slowly through his fingers.
Well, look like it, don't I?
Beginning all over again to feel for his clue.
My friend, did you never hear of a man in
this place whose name was Rip Van Winkle?
Seth.
Rip Van Winkle, the laziest, drunken vagabond
in the country?
158 RIP VAN WINKLE.
Rip.
Somewhat taken aback by this description,
but obliged to concur in it.
Yah, that is the one; there is no- mistaking
him, eh?
Seth.
I know ail about him.
Rip.
Do you?
Hopefully 0
Seth,
Yes.
Rip.
Quite eagerly.
Well, if you know all about him; well, what
has become of him?
Seth.
What has become of him ? Why, bless your
soul, he's been dead these twenty years !
Rip.
Looking at Seth.
Then I am dead, I suppose. So Rip Van
Winkle was dead, eh?
Seth.
Yes ; and buried.
RIP VAN WINKLE.
159
Rip.
Humourously.
I'm sorry for that ; for he was a good fellow,
so he was.
Seth.
Aside.
There appears to be something queer about
this old chap ; I wonder who he is.
Rises, and taking chair over to Rip.
There, old gentleman, be seated.
Rip.
Seating himself with great difficulty, aided
by Seth.
Oh, thank you ; every time I move a new
way, I get another pain. My friend, where is
the house what you live in?
Seth.
Pointing at inn.
There.
Rip.
Did you live there yesterday?
Setpi. .
Well, rather.
Rip.
No; it is Nick Vedder what live in that house.
Where is Nick Vedder?
i6o RIP VAN WINKLE.
Seth.
Does he? Then I wish he'd pay the rent for
it. Why, Nick Vedder has- been dead these fif¬
teen years.
Rip.
Did you know Jacob Stine, what was with him?
Seth.
No; but I Ve heard of him. He was one of
the same sort as Rip and Nick.
Rip.
Yes, them fellows was all pretty much alike.
Seth.
Well, he went off the hooks a short time after
Rip.
Rip.
Where has he gone ?
Seth.
Off the hooks.
Rip.
What is that, when they go off the hooks?
Seth.
Why, he died.
RIP VAN WINKLE.
i6i
Rip.
With an air of hopelessness.
Is there anybody alive here at all?
Then, with a sudden revulsion of feeling,
convinced of the impossibility of what he
hears.
That man is drunk what talks to me.
Seth.
Ah, they were a jolly set, I reckon.
Rip.
Oh, they was. I knowed them all.
Seth.
Did you?
Rip.
Yes, I know Jacob Stine, and Nick Vedder,
and Rip Van Winkle, and the whole of them.
A new idea strikes him, and he beckons to
Seth, whom he asks, very earnestly.
Oh, my friend, come and see here. Did you
know Schneider?
Seth.
Schneider ! Schneider ! No, I never heard of
him.
Rip.
Simply.
He was a dog. I thought you might know
him. Well, if dat is so, what has become of my
II
102
RIP VAN WINKLE.
child Meenie, and my wife Gretchen? Are they
gone, too?
Turning to look at the ruins of the house.
Yah, even the house is dead.
Seth.
Poor old chap ! He seems quite cast down at
the loss of his friends. I '11 step in and get a
drop of something to cheer him up.
Exit.
Rip.
Puzzling it out with himself.
I can't make it out how it all was ; because if
this here is me, what is here now, and Rip Van
Winkle is dead, then who am I? That is what I
would like to know. Yesterday, everybody was
here ; and now they was all gone.
Very forlorn.
Re-enter Seth, followed by the villagers.
Seth.
Offering Rip the cup.
There, old gent, there's a drop of something
to cheer you up.
Rip.
Shaking hands with Seth and Katchen.
Oh, thank you. I — I — I swore off; but this
is the first time what I see you. I won't count
this one.
RIP VAN WINKLE.
163
His voice breaks.
My friend, you have been very kind to me.
Here is your good health, and your family's, and
may they all live long and prosper !
Seth.
I say, wife, ain't he a curiosity fit for a show?
Rip.
Aside.
That gives me courage to ask these people
anodder question.
He begins with difficulty.
My friend, I don't know whether you knowed
it or not, but there was a child of Rip, — Meenie
her name was.
Seth.
Oh, yes ; that's all right.
Rip.
With great emotion, leaning forward.
She is not gone? She is not dead? No, no!
Setpi.
No. She's alive.
Rip.
Sinking back with relief.
Meenie is alive. It's all right now,— all right
now.
104
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Seth.
She's the prettiest girl in the village.
Rip.
I know dat.
Seth.
But if she wastes her time waiting on Hen-
drick Vedder, she '11 be a middle-aged wo¬
man before long.
Rip.
Incredulously.
She's a little
child, only six
years old.
Seth.
Six - and -
twenty, you
mean.
Rip.
Thinking they
are making
fun of him.
She's a little child no bigger than that. Don't
bodder me ; I don't like that.
Seth.
Why, she's as big as her mother.
RIP VAN WINKLE. 165
Rip.
Very much surprised that Seth knows Gretchen.
What, Gretchen?
Seth.
Yes, Gretchen.
Rip.
Isn't Gretchen dead?
Seth.
No ; she's alive.
Rip.
With mixed emotions.
Gretchen is alive, eh ! Gretchen's alive !
Seth.
Yes; and married again.
Rip.
Fiercely
How would she do such a thing like that?
Seth.
Why, easy enough. After Rip died, she was
a widow, was n't she?
Rip.
Oh, yes. I forgot about Rip's being dead.
Well, and then?
i66
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Seth.
Well, then Derrick made love to her.
Rip.
Surprised, and almost amused.
What for Derrick? Not Derrick Von Beek-
man?
Seth.
Yes, Derrick Von Beekman.
Rip.
Still more interested.
Well, and then?
Seth.
Well, then her affairs went bad ; and at last she
married him.
Rip.
Turning it over in his mind.
Has Derrick married Gretchen?
\ ■■
Seth.
Yes.
Rip.
With a flash of his old humour, but still with
no laughter.
Well, I did n't think he would come to any
good ; I never did. So she cotched Derrick, eh !
Poor Derrick!
RIP VAN WINKLE.
167
Seth.
Yes.
Rip.
Well, here's their good health, and their fam¬
ily's, and may they all live long and prosper !
Drinks
Seth.
Now, old gent, had n't you better be going
home, wherever that is?
Rip.
With conviction.
Where my home was? Here's where it is.
Seth.
What, here in this village? Now do you think
we 're going to keep all the half-witted strays
that choose to come along here? No; be off
with you. Why, it's a shame that those you
belong to should allow such an old tramp as you
to float around here.
Villagers.
Roughly, and trying to push him along.
Yes ; away with him !
Rip.
Frightened, and pleading with them.
Are you going to drive me away into the hills
again?
i68
RIP VAN WINKLE.
First Villager.
Yes ; away with him ! He's an old tramp.
Enter Hendrick, with stick and bundle, fol¬
lowed by some of the women of the village.
Villagers.
Away with him !
Hendrick.
Throwing down bundle.
Avast there, mates. Where are you towing
that old hulk to? What, you won't?
Pushing crowd aside, and going forward.
Where are you towing that old hulk to ?
Seth.
Who are you?
Hendrick.
I'm a man, every inch of me ; and if you doubt
it, I '11 undertake to remove the suspicions from
any^ two of you in five minutes. Ain't you
ashamed of yourselves? Don't you see the poor
old creature has but half his wits?
Seth.
Well, this is no asylum for worn out idiots.
Villagers.
Coming forward.
No, it ain't!
RIP VAN WINKLE.
169
Hendrick.
Ain't it?
Omnes.
No, it ain't.
Hendrick.
Then I 'II make it a hospital for broken heads
if you stand there much longer. Clear the decks,
you lubberly swabs !
Drives them aside. Turns to Rip, who stands
bewildered.
What is the cause of all this?
Helplessly.
To villagers.
Rip.
I don't know; do you?
Hendrick.
Do any of you know him?
First Villager.
No ; he appears to be a stranger.
Hendrick.
To Rip.
You seem bewildered. Can I help you?
Rip.
Feebly.
Just tell me where I live.
170
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Hendrick.
And don*t you know?
Rip.
No, I don't.
Hendrick.
Why, what's your name?
Rip.
Almost childishly.
I don't know; but I believe I know vat it used
to be. My name, it used to be Rip Van Winkle.
Villagers.
In astonishment.
Rip Van Winkle ?
Hendrick.
Rip Van Winkle? Impossible!
Rip.
Pathetically feeble, and old.
Well, I would n't swear to it myself. I tell
you how it was : Last night, I don't know about
the time, I went away up into the mountains,
and while I was there I meet a queer kind o' man,
and we got drinkin' ; and I guess I got pretty
drunk. And then I went to sleep ; and when I
woke up this morning, I was dead.
All laugh.
No one remembers Rip Nan Winkle J
RIP VAN WINKLE.
171
Hendrick.
Poor old fellow; he's crazy. Rip Van Winkle
has been dead these twenty years. I knew him
when I was a child.
Rip.
Clutching at a faint hope.
You don't know me?
Hendrick.
No ; nor anybody else here, it seems.
The villagers, finding that there is to be no
amusement for them, straggle off to their
occupations.
Seth.
As he goes into the inn.
Why, wife, he's as cracked as our old teapot.
Rip.
With simple pathos.
Are we so soon forgot when we are gone?
No one remembers Rip Van Winkle.
Hendrick.
Come, cheer up, my old hearty, and you shall
share my breakfast.
Assists Rip to sit at the table. Rip has
fallen into a dream again.
To Katchen.
Bring us enough for three, and of your best.
172 RIP VAN WINKLE.
Katchen.
That I will.
Exit into inn.
Hendrick.
So here I am, home again. And yonder's the
very spot where, five years ago, I parted from
Meenie.
Rip.
Roused by the name.
What, Meenie Van Winkle?
Hendrick.
And she promised to remain true to Hendrick
Vedder.
Rip.
Oh, yah; that was Nick Vedder's son.
Hendrick.
Turning to Rip.
That's me.
Rip.
Resentfully.
That was you ! You think Hm a fool? He's
a little child, no bigger than that,—the one I
mean.
Hendrick.
How mad he is !
Enter Katchen from inn with tray, on which
is laid a breakfast. She puts it on table,
and exits into inn.
RIP VAN WINKLE.
173
There, that's right Stow your old locker full
while I take a cruise around yonder house, where,
five years ago, I left the dearest bit of human
nature that was ever put together. I '11 be back
directly.
Who comes here? It's surely Derrick and his
wife. Egad, I'm in luck; for now the old birds
are out, Meenie will surely be alone. I '11 take
advantage of the coast being clear, and steer into
harbour alongside.
Exit. Enter Derrick, followed by Gretchen.
Derrick.
So you have come to that conclusion, have
you ?
Gretchen.
I cannot accept this sacrifice.
Rip.
Starting from his reverie, and turning to
look at,her.
Why, that is Gretchen's voice.
As he recognises her, and sees how aged
she, is.
My, my ! Is that my wife ?
Derrick.
Oh, you can't accept! Won't you kindly allow
me a word on the subject?
174
RIP YAN WINKLE.
Rip.
Aside, humourously.
No, indeed, she will not. Now, my friend, you
are going to cotch it.
Gretchen.
There is a limit even to my patience. Don't
drive me to it.
Rip.
Aside, drolly.
Take care, my friend, take care.
Derrick.
Look you, woman ; Meenie has consented to
marry my nephew. She has pledged her word
to do so on condition that I settle an annuity
on you.
Gretchen.
I won't allow my child to break her heart.
Derrick.
You won't allow? Dare to raise your voice,
dare but to speak, except as I command you,
you shall repent it to the last hour of your
life.
Rip.
Expectantly.
Now she '11 knock him down, flat as a flounder.
RIP VAN WINKLE.
175
Derrick.
Sneeringly.
You won't allow? This is something new.
Who are you; do you think you are dealing
with your first husband?
Gretchen.
Alas, no ; I wish I was.
Rip.
Lost in wonderment.
My, my, if Rip was alive, he never would
have believed it !
Derrick.
So you thought to get the upper hand of me,
when you married me ; did n't you ?
Gretchen.
I thought to get a home for my little girl —
shelter, and food ; want drove me to your door,
and I married you for a meal's victuals for my
sick child.
Derrick.
So you came to me as if I was a poor-house,
eh ? Then you can't complain of the treat¬
ment you received. You sacrificed yourself for
176
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Meenie ; and the least she can do now, is to do
the same for you. In an hour, the deeds will be
ready. Now, just you take care that no insolent
interference of yours spoils my plans ; do you
hear?
Gretchen.
Yes, sir.
Derrick.
Why can't you
be kind and affec¬
tionate to her, as I
am to you. There,
go and blubber over her; that's your way. You
are always pretending to be miserable.
RIP VAN ^^^INKLE
177
Gretcheis}'.
Alas, no, sir! I am always pretending to be
happy.
Derrick.
Don't cry. I won't have it; come now, none
of that If you come home to-day with red
eyes, and streaky cheeks, I '11 give you some¬
thing to cry for ; now you know what's for
supper.
Exit.
Rip.
Still amazed.
Well, if I had n't seen it, I never would have
believed it!
Gret.chen.
Absorbed in her grief.
Oh, wretch that I am, I must consent, or that
man will surely thrust her out of doors to starve,
to beg, and to become —
Seeing Rip.
Yes, to become a thing of rags and misery,
like that poor soul.
Rip.
She always drived the beggars away; I sup¬
pose I must go.
Getting up, and starting to go.
12
178
RIP VAN WINKLE.
G^etchen.
Taking penny from her pocket.
Here, my poor man, take this. It is only a
penny; but take it, and may God bless you,
poor wanderer, so old, so helpless. Why do
you come to this strange place, so far from
home?
Rip.
Keeping his face turned away from her.
She don't know me ; she don't know me !
Gretchen.
Are you alone in the world?
Rip.
Trying to bring himself to look directly at
Gretchen.
My wife asks me if I'm alone.
Gretchen.
Come with me. How feeble he is ; there, lean
on me. Come to yonder house, and there you
shall rest your limbs by the fire.
Gretchen takes his arm, and puts it in her
own. As they move towards her house,
Rip stops, and, with an effort, turns and
looks her full in the face, with a penetrat¬
ing gaze, as if imploring recognition, but
there is none ; and, sadly shaking his head,
he shrinks into himself, and allows her to
lead him tottering off.
RIP VAN WINKLE.
179
Scene iv.
The same room in Derrick's home as in
Scene II.
Enter Derrick.
Derrick.
I don't know what women were invented for,
except to make a man's life miserable. I can get
a useful, hard-working woman to keep my house
clean, and order my dinner for me, for half that
weak snivelling creature costs me.
Enter Cockles.
Cockles.
Well, uncle, what news; will she have me?
Derrick.
Leave it to me ; she must, she shall.
Cockles.
If she holds out, what are we to do? It was
all very well, you marrying Rip's widow, that
choked off all inquiry into his affairs ; but here's
Meenie, Rip's heiress, who rightly owns all this
property ; if we don't secure her, we 're not
safe.
Derrick.
You've got rid of Hendrick Vedder; that's
one obstacle removed.
i8o
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Cockles.
I'm not so sure about that. His ship was
wrecked on a lonely coast; but some of the
crew may have, unfortunately, been saved.
Derrick.
If he turns up after you're married, what
need you care?
Cockles.
I'd like nothing better ; I'd like to see his
face when he saw my arm around his sweet¬
heart— my wife. But if he turns up before
our marriage —
Derrick.
I must put the screw on somewhere.
Cockles.
I '11, tell you, Meenie will do anything for her
mother's sake. Now you are always threatening
to turn her out, as she turned out Rip. That's
the tender place. Meenie fears more for her
mother, than she cares for herself.
Derrick.
Well, what am I to do?
RIP VAN WINKLE. i8i
Cockles.
Make Gretchen independent of you ; settle
the little fortune on her, that you are always
talking about doing, but never keeping your
word. The girl will sell herself to secure her
mother^s happiness.
Derrick.
And it would be a cheap riddance for me. I
was just talking about it to Gretchen this morn¬
ing. You shall have the girl; but I hope you
are not going to marry her out of any weak
feeling of love. You he not going to let her
make a fool of you by and by?
Cockles.
I never cared for her until she was impudent
to me, and got that sailor lover of hers to
thrash me ; and then I began to feel a hunger
for her I never felt before.
Derrick.
That's just the way I felt for Gretchen.
Cockles.
'T ain't revenge that I feel ; it's enterprise. I
want to overcome a difficulty.
I82
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Derrick.
Chuckling.
And SO you shall. Come, we '11 put your
scheme in train at once ; and let this be a warn¬
ing to you hereafter, never marry another man's
widow.
Cockles.
No, uncle; I'll take a leaf out of your book,
and let it be a warning to her.
Exeunt.
RIP VAN WINKLE.
183
Scene v.
A plain sitting-room in Derrick's house. A
table stands in the centre with several
chairs around it. There are cups, a jug,
and a work-basket on the table. As the
curtain rises, Meenie is discovered seated
by the table.
Meenie.
Why should I repine? Did my mother hesi¬
tate to sacrifice her life to make a home for me?
No ; these tears are ungrateful, selfish.
The door at the back opens, and Gretchen
enters, leading Rip, who seems very feeble
and a little wild.
Gretchen.
Come in and rest awhile.
Rip.
This your house, your home?
Gretchen.
Yes. Meenie, Meenie, bring him a chair.
Rip.
Turning aside so as to shield his face from
Meenie.
Is that your daughter?
184
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Gretchen.
That is my daughter.
Rip.
Looking timidly at Meenie, as Gretchen
helps him into a chair.
I thought you was a child.
Gretchen.
Crossing to go into another room, and
speaking to Meenie, who starts to follow
her.
Stay with him until I get some food to fill his
wallet. Don't be frightened, child, he is only
a simple, half-witted creature whose misery has
touched my heart.
Exit. Meenie takes her work-basket, and
starts to follow.
Rip.
Holding out his hand to detain her, and
speaking with hardly suppressed excite¬
ment.
One moment, my dear. Come here, and let
me look at you.
Pathetically.
Are you afraid? I won't hurt you. I only
want to look at you ; that is all. Won't you
come?
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Meenie puts down her work-basket ; and Rip
is relieved of his great fear that she might
leave him. His excitement increases as
he goes on in his struggle to make her
recognise him.
Yes ; I thought you would. Oh, yah, that is
Meenie ! But you are grown !
Meenie smiles.
But see the smile and the eyes ! That is just
the same Meenie. You are a woman, Meenie.
Do you remember something of your father?
i86
RIP VAN WINKLE.
He looks at ber eagerly and anxiously, as if
on her answer hung his reason and his
life.
Meenie.
I do. I do. Oh, I wish he was here now !
Rip.
Half rising in his chair, in his excitement.
Yah? But he is n't? No? No?
Meente.
No ; he's dead. I remember him so well. No
one ever loved him as I did.
Rip.
No ; nobody ever loved me like my child.
Meente.
(
Never shall I forget his dear, good face. Tell
me —
Rip.
Eagerly and expectantly.
Yah? —
Meente.
Did y^ou know him ?
RIP VAN WINKLE.
187
Rip.
Confused by her question, and afraid to
answer.
Well—I thought I did. But I— When I
s
say that here, in the village, the people all laugh
at me.
Meente.
He is wandering.
She starts to go.
Rip.
Making a great effort of will, and resolved
to put the question of his identity to the
test.
Don't go away from me. I want you to look
at me now, and tell me if you have ever seen me
before.
Meente.
Surprised.
No.
Rip.
Holding out his arms to her.
Try, my darlin/ won't you ?
Meente.
Frightened.
What do you mean? Why do you gaze so
earnestly and fondly on me?
i88
RIP VAN WINKLE
Rip.
Rising from his chair, in trembling excite¬
ment, and approaching her.
I am afraid to tell you, my dear, because if
you say it is not true, it may be it would break
my heart But, Meenie, either I dream, or I am
mad ; but I am your father.
Meenie.
My father !
Rip.
Yes; but hear me, my dear, and then you will
know.
Trying to be logical and calm, but labouring
under great excitement.
This village here is the village of Falling
Waters. Well, that was my home. I had here
in this place my wife Gretchen, and my child
Meenie — little Meenie —^
A long pause, during which he strives to
re-assemble his ideas and memories more
accurately.
and my dog Schneider. That's all the family
what I Ve got. Try and remember me, dear,
won't you.î*
Pleadingly.
I don't know when it was — This night there
was a storm ; and my wife drived me from my
''Ah, my child 1 Somebody knows me now!
RIP VAN WINKLE.
189
house; and I went away — I don't remember any
more till I come back here now. And see, I get
back now, and my wife is gone, and my home is
gone. My home is gone, and my child — my
child looks in my face, and don't know who I
am !
Meenie.
Rushing into his arms.
I do ! Father !
Rip.
Sobbing.
Ah, my child ! Somebody knows me now !
Somebody knows me now !
Meente.
But can it be possible?
Rip.
Oh, yah; it is so, Meenie !
With a pathetic return of his uncertainty.
Don't say it is not, or you will kill me if you
do.
Meente.
No. One by one your features come back to
my memory. Your voice recalls that of my
dear father, too. I cannot doubt; yet it is so
strange.
Rtp.
Yah, but it is me, Meenie; it is me.
RIP VAN WINKLE.
meenie.
I am bewildered. Surely mother will know
you.
Rip.
Smiling.
No, I don't believe she'll know me.
Meenie.
She can best prove your identity. I will call
her.
Rip.
No. You call the dog Schneider. He '11
know me better than my wife.
They retire to a sofa in the background,
where Rip sits with his arm around
Meenie. ^
Enter Derrick, with documents.
1 In reply to a question, why Rip should sit with his arm
around Meenie, during the next scene, when the other persons
in the drama are present, and are still ignorant of his identity,
Mr. Jefferson said; "The other persons are occupied with
their own affairs, and are not supposed to see this. It is
nafural that Rip should embrace his daughter whom he has
just found ; but the others are not supposed to see it. It is
like a side speech on the stage. I went to a Chinese theatre
once, and after the Chinese lady got through with her song,
they brought her a glass of gin ; she turned her back to the
audience, and drank it, as much as to say, ' That's not in the
play.' We are dealing with the impossible all the time on the
stage ; and we have got to make it appear possible. Dramati¬
cally, things may often be right, when, realistically, they are
wrong. What we do is often the result of averaging the
thing, determining how far good taste will admit of an error,
you see; like the discord in music,—not good in itself, but
good in its place."
RIP VAN WINKLE. 191
Derrick.
What old vagabond is this?
Meenie starts to resent insult.
Rip.
Don't you say a word.
Derrick.
Here, give him a cold potato, and let him go.
To Gretchen, who has entered, followed by
Cockles. Gretchen seats herself in the
chair at the right of the table.
Come you here, mistress. Here are the papers
for the young couple to sign.
Cockles.
Aside.
And the sooner the better. Hush, uncle.
Hendrick is here.
Derrick.
Young Vedder? Then we must look sharp.
To Gretchen.
Come, fetch that girl of yours to sign this
deed.
Gretchen.
Never shall she put her name to that paper
with my consent. Never.
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Derrick.
Dare you oppose me in my own house? Dare
you preach disobedience under my roof?
Gretchen.
I dare do anything when my child's life's at
stake. No, a thousand times, no ! You shall not
make of her what you have of me. Starvation
and death are better than such a life as I lead.
I
Derrick.
Raisfag cane.
I "
Don't provoke me.
Gretchen.
Kneeling.
Beat me, starve me. You can only kill me.
After all, I deserve it.
Rising.
But Meenie has given her promise to Hendrick
Vedder, and she shall not break her word.
1
Cockles.
Seated at right of table.
But Hendrick Vedder is dead.
The door is flung open, and Hendrick enters.
Hendrick.
That's a lie! He's alive!
RIP VAN WINKLE.
193
Gretghen and Meenie.
Rushing to him.
Alive !
Hendrick.
To Meenie.
I Ve heard all about it. They made you
believe that I was dead.
To Derrick.
Only wait till I get through here.
Embracing Meenie.
What a pleasure I've got to come !
To Derrick.
And what a thrashing I Ve brought back for
you two swabs.
Derrick.
Angrily.
Am I to be bullied under my own roof by a
beggarly sailor? Quit my house, all of you.
Seizes Gretchen, and drags her away from
the crowd.
As for you, wofnan, this is your work, and I '11
make you pay for it.
Gretchen.
Hendrick, save me from'him. He will kill me.
Stand off!
Hendrick.
13
194
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Derrick.
No ; she is my wife, mine.
Raising cane.
Gretchen.
Heaven help me, I am !
Rip has risen from the sofa, and come for¬
ward, and leans against the centre of the
table, with one hand in his game-bag. He
is fully awake now, and has recovered all
his old shrewdness.
Rip.
Stop. I am not so sure about that. If that is
so, then what has become of Rip Van Winkle?
Cockles.
He's dead.
Rip.
That's another lie. He's no more dead than
Hendrick Vedder. Derrick Von Beekman, you
say tliis house and land was yours?
Derrick.
Yes.
Rip.
Where and what is the paper what you wanted
Rip Van Winkle to sign when he was drunk, but
sober enough not to do it?
RIP VAN WINKLE.
195
Taking an old paper out of game-bag, and
turning to Hendrick.
Have you forgot how to read?
Hendrick.
No.
Rip.
Then you read that.
Hendrick takes the document from Rip, and
looks it over.
Derrick.
What does this mad old vagabond mean to
say?
Rip.
I mean, that is my wife, Gretchen Van Winkle.
Gretchen.
Rushing to Rip.
Rip ! Rip !
Cockles.
I say, uncle, are you going to stand that? That
old impostor is going it under your nose in fine
style.
Derrick.
I'm dumb with rage.
To the villagers, who have come crowding in.
Out of my house, all of you ! Begone, you
old tramp !
196
RIP VAN WINKLE.
Hendrick.
Stay where you are.
To Derrick.
This house don't belong to you. Not an acre
of land, not a brick in the town is yours. They
have never ceased to belong to Rip Van Winkle;
and this document proves it.
Derrick.
'T is false. That paper is a forgery.
Hendrick.
Oh, no, it is not ; for I read it to Rip twenty
years ago.
Rip.
Clever boy ! Clever boy ! Dat's the reason I
did n't sign it then. Derrick.
Derrick.
Approaching Hendrick.
And do you think I'm fool enough to give up
my property in this way?
Hendrick.
No. You 're fool enough to hang on to it,
until we make you refund to Rip every shilling
over and above the paltry sum you loaned him
RIP VAN WINKLE.
197
upon it. Now, if you are wise, you 11 take a hint.
There's the door. Go ! And never let us see
your face agáin.
Rip.
Yah; give him a cold potato, and let him go.
Exit Derrick in a great rage. All the vil¬
lagers laugh at him. Hendrick follows
him to the door.
Cockles.
Kneeling by Meenie.
0 Meenie ! Meenie !
Hendrick.
Coming down, and taking him by ear.
1 11 Meenie you !
Takes him and pushes him out. All the
villagers laugh. Meenie gives Rip a chair.
Gretchen.
»
Kneeling by the side of Rip.
O Rip ! I drove you from your home ; but
do not desert me again. 111 never speak an
unkind word to you, and you shall never see a
frown on my face. And Rip —
Yah.
Rip.
198 RIP VAN WINKLE.
Gretchen.
You may stay out all night, if you like.
Rip.
Leaning back in his chair.
No, thank you. I had enough of that.
Gretchen.
And, Rip, you can get tight as often as you
please.
Taking bottle, and filling the cup from it.
Rip.
No ; I don't touch another drop.
Meenie.
Kneeling by the other side of Rip.
Oh, yes, you will, father. For see, here are all
the neighbours come to welcome you home.
Gretchen offers Rip the cup.
Rip.
With all his old kindliness and hospitality.
Well, bring in all the children, and the neigh¬
bours, and the dogs, and —
Seeing the cup which Gretchen is offering
to him.
I swore off, you know. Well, I won't count
this one ; for this will go down with a prayer.
RIP VAN WINKLE.
199
I will take my cup and pipe, and tell my
strange story to all my friends. Here is my
child Meenie, and my wife Gretchen, and my boy
Hendrick. I dl drink all your good health, and
I '11 drink your good health, and your families',
and may they all live long and prosper !
[CURTAIN.]
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