I'm Not Stiller by Max Frisch Page A

the glittering Hudson, a glorious region as may still be seen today, and there was no lack of squirrels. God knows why Rip went on telling everyone he was a hunter! Sunk in thoughts that no one ever got to know, he strolled through the forest. There were hares here, yes, even a deer! Rip stood still and looked at the surprised animal with reverence, his hands in his jacket pockets, his gun on his shoulder, his pipe in his mouth. The deer, which obviously didn't imagine for a moment that he was a hunter, went on calmly grazing. I've got to be a hunter! Rip told himself, suddenly thinking of the tavern in the evening and of his faithful wife, and he put the gun to his shoulder. He took aimat the deer, which gazed at him. He even pressed the trigger, only there was no powder in it! It was strange, the dog barked even though no shot had rung out, and at the same moment shouts came from the ravine: Rip van Winkle, Rip van Winkle! A very odd-looking fellow, panting under a heavy burden, came up out of the ravine that was as unexpected as it was rocky, bent down so that his face was out of sight, but his clothing alone was disconcerting, a cloth jerkin as in old-fashioned pictures and wide breeches with bright-coloured ribbons, yes, he even had a goatee beard such as Rip's forefathers had once worn. But on his shoulders he carried a handsome little barrel of brandy. Rip didn't take long to respond to his call. You're a polite person, said the fellow with the goatee. You're a helpful person. And with these words, which Rip was so pleased to hear, he hoisted the barrel onto his shoulders, so that Rip abandoned any further questions. First they went uphill, then down into another ravine, an area Rip had never seen before. Even Bauz, the faithful dog, felt ill at ease, rubbing up against his master's legs and whimpering. For there was a sound like thunder coming from the ravine! At last they got to the point when the hard barrel was lifted from Rip's aching shoulders and he could straighten up and look around. This is Rip van Winkle, said the fellow with the goatee, and Rip found himself in the middle of a group of old gentlemen wearing Dutch hats, with stiff, solemn faces and old-fashioned frills. No one said a word, only Rip nodded. It was, as it turned out, a group of skittle-players. Hence the booming and rumbling from the ravine! Rip had immediately to fill the jugs; each of the old gentlemen took a hearty swig, then they went silently back to their skittles and Rip, who liked to show himself polite, couldn't avoid setting up the skittles again. Only now and then, hurriedly, was he able to take a gulp from the jug. It was gin, his favourite liquor! But once again the skittles flew apart and every time with a ringing crack that echoed through the whole ravine. Rip had his hands full. And there was no end to the cracking and rumbling. No sooner had the heavy and rather wobbly skittles been straightened up again, so that Rip could reach for the gin, than the next gentleman stepped up to the alley, shut his left eye in order to aim, and bowled his stone ball, which boomedlike a thunderclap. They were a pretty strange group of people and, as I have said, not a word was spoken, so that Rip too didn't dare ask when he was going to be released from this drudgery. Their faces between the Dutch hats and the old-fashioned frills, as worn by his ancestors, were so dignified. Only as Rip set up the skittles again he had the disagreeable feeling that they were grinning behind his back, but Rip couldn't turn round and look because while his hand was still on the last skittle, that was wobbling, he heard the booming rumble of the next ball and had to jump out of the way to prevent it from crushing his leg. It was impossible to see when this drudgery would ever come to an end. The barrel of brandy seemed to be inexhaustible, again and again Rip had to fill the jugs, again and again they took a gulp, again and again they went silently back to their