西雅图酋长的演说
Chief Seattle's Oration

在我的人民看来ˇ这儿的每一寸土地都是神圣的。每一个山坡ˇ每一条山谷ˇ每一块平原和树林都由于一些在那早已ˇ逝的岁月里的悲伤或愉快的事件ˇ而变成了圣地。

西雅图酋长是濒临太平洋的西北地区六个印地安部落的酋长。1854年12月ˇ他对包括准州州长ˇ白人移民和大约一千名印地安人在内的集会发表演说。他的讲话是针对州长伊萨克ˇ艾ˇ史蒂文斯的。史蒂文斯州长刚从华盛顿特区来ˇ带来了购买印地安人土地ˇ设置印地安人保护区的指示。在后来成爲西雅图市的地方ˇ酋长发表了人们称之爲“葬礼演说”或者说是“天鹅临终之歌”的演说。他表示他接受联邦政府的提议ˇ不发动战争以反抗在力量上占绝对优势的政府ˇ因爲那是注定要失败的。早期历史常常反复刊载移民与印地安人之间的骇人听闻的战事。但是ˇ当大多数印地安人部落被驱赶到西部ˇ被驯化或被摧残之后ˇ印地安人成了人们同情或感伤的对ˇˇ成了“进步”或命定说的不可避免的受害者。西雅图酋长的演说一再被重印ˇ不是爲了感伤地看待他爲之辩护的人们ˇ而是因爲他动人地描述了红种人与白种人之间的差异。下文再ˇ了西雅图酋长的演说。该文系亨利ˇ阿ˇ史密斯博士所作。他在1854年那个具有历史意义的事件中ˇ是西雅图酋长的翻译。

……说不清有多少世纪了ˇ苍天爲我的人民洒下了多少动情的泪水ˇ它在我们看来是水恒不变的ˇ但却可能要变了。今天晴空万里ˇ明天却可能乌云密布。不过ˇ我的话却ˇ那些星星ˇ永世不变。如同日落日出ˇ四季周而复始是不容置疑的一样ˇ西雅图酋长说的一切ˇ华盛顿的大首领同样也无须置疑。白人头领说ˇ华盛顿的大头领ˇ我们表示友谊和善意。这是他的好意ˇ因爲我们知道ˇ他根本无需我们以友谊作爲回报。他们人多ˇ多得就ˇ那覆盖着广阔草原的青草。我的人民人少力薄ˇ就ˇ风暴肆虐后零星留在平原上的树木。白人大首领ˇ我姑且认爲他是善良的首领ˇ捎信给我们ˇ说他希望购买我们的土地ˇ不过愿意允许我们拥有足够我们安逸生活的土地。这看来的确是公正、甚至是慷慨的ˇ因爲红种人不再拥有他必须尊重的权利了ˇ这可能也是明智的ˇ因爲我们已不再需要辽阔的ˇ土了。

我们的人民曾一度ˇ大风搅乱的大海覆盖着布满贝壳的海床一样覆盖着这片土地ˇ但是ˇ那时代早已同庞大的部落一道成爲过去ˇ而那些部落ˇ在只不过是一桩令人忧伤的回忆。我不ˇ细述或哀悼我们不合时宜的衰败ˇ我也不ˇ斥责那些加速了我们衰败过程的白脸兄弟ˇ因爲我们对此可能也有责任。

青年是容易感情冲动的。当我们的年轻人对某些真正的或臆ˇ的冤屈而气愤的时候ˇ他们用黑顔料来改变他们的面容。这表明他们的心是黑的。他们常常是残暴冷酷的ˇ我们年迈的老头子和老太婆无法约束他们。事情ˇ来如此。当白人最初将我们的祖先往西赶时ˇ情况就是这样。不过ˇ让我们希望我们之间的敌意永远别再复生。我们将丧失一切ˇ而一无所获。年轻人又琢磨着报仇了ˇ即使牺牲他们自己的生命ˇ也在所不辞。但是ˇ那些在战时留在家中的老年人ˇ那些将失去儿子的母亲比较明智些ˇ他们不会答应的。

我们在华盛顿的慈父ˇˇ因爲我姑且承认他ˇ在是我们的父亲ˇ也是你们的父亲ˇ既然乔治国王已经将他的边界往北移了ˇˇ我们伟大的慈父捎信给我们ˇ表示如果我们按照他说的话办ˇ他就保护我们。他英勇的战士对我们来说ˇ将成爲严阵以待的铜墙铁壁ˇ而他那顶刮刮的战舰将遍布我们的港口ˇ这样ˇ我们北方的宿敌ˇˇ海达斯和茨姆先斯部落就不能吓唬我们的妇女、儿童和老人了。那麽ˇ实际上他将成爲我们的父亲ˇ而我们将成爲他的孩子吗?这可能吗?你们的上帝不是我们的上帝ˇ你们的上帝疼爱你们的人民ˇ但却增恨我的人民。你们的上帝用他有力的胳臂疼爱地搂着白人ˇ保护他ˇˇ父亲领着幼儿一样手把手地领着他ˇˇ但是ˇ他却遗忘了他的红种子女ˇˇ如果他们真是他的子女的话ˇ我们的上帝是伟大的神灵ˇ但他似乎也遗忘了我们。你们的上帝使你们的人口日益增长ˇ很快他们就将充斥整个大地。而我们的人口ˇ却ˇ迅速退去而且水不再涨的潮水一样ˇ越来越少。白人的上帝不可能疼爱我们的人民ˇ不然他就会保护他们的。他们就ˇ无依无靠的婴儿。这样ˇ我们怎麽能成爲兄弟呢?你们的上帝怎麽会成爲我们的上帝呢?你们的上帝怎麽会再ˇ我们的繁盛ˇ唤醒我们心中要求重新强大起来的梦ˇ呢?如果说我们同有一位天国之父ˇ那麽他一定是偏心的ˇˇ因爲他只看望他的白人子女。我们从未见过他。他赋予你们法律ˇ可是对他的红种子女却没有片言只语ˇ尽管他的这些子女曾人丁兴旺ˇ一度充斥这片广衰的大陆ˇ就ˇ繁星充斥了太空一样。不ˇ我们是两个不同的种族ˇ起源不同ˇ命运也不同。我们之间没有什麽共同之处。

祖先的骨灰对我们来说是神圣的ˇ他们安息之场所是圣地。你们远离祖先的墓地漫游ˇ并且似乎毫无任何遗憾的感觉。你们的宗教是你们的上帝用他铁一般的手指ˇ书写在石碑上ˇ这样你们就不会遗忘。红种人永远无法理解ˇ也无法记住你们的宗教。我们的宗教是我们祖先的传统ˇˇ是伟大神灵在深夜庄严的时刻交给我们老人的梦ˇˇ是我们酋长心中的幻ˇ。我们的宗教就写在我们人民的心中。

你们的死者一旦迈进坟墓的门坎ˇ便远游星际ˇ不再钟爱你们ˇ不再钟爱养育了他们的故土。他们很快便被遗忘ˇ也永远不再回返。我们的死者永远不会忘却那给予他们身心的美丽家园。他们依旧留恋那碧绿的山谷ˇ潺潺的流水ˇ巍巍的丛山ˇ与世隔绝的溪谷ˇˇ着翠绿堤岸的湖泊和海湾。他们甚至柔情脉脉地思慕那些仍然活在世间的心中寂寞的人们ˇ常常从欢乐的狩猎场抽身回来探望、指引、抚问和安慰他们。昼夜不能同在。红种人一ˇ在白种人来临时遁去ˇ就ˇ晨雾在晨曦前逃逸一样。

不过ˇ你们的建议看来还公平。我ˇˇ我的人民会接受ˇ并且将退到你们爲我们提供的保护区内。那时ˇ我们就将分别生活在和平之中ˇ因爲白人大首领的话似乎就是那冥冥无知的自然对我的人民说的一样。

我们的余生在何处度过没有多大关系。反正所剩的时日也不多了。印地安人的夜看来是漆黑一片。地平在ˇ连颗希望之星都没有。凄风在远处呻吟。冷酷无情的命运看来是跟定了红种人的足迹。无论他走到哪里ˇ都会听到凶残的杀手逼近的脚步声。他木然地准备迎接死亡ˇ就ˇ受伤的母鹿听到猎人逼近的脚步声时一样。

再过几个月ˇ再过几个冬天ˇˇ昔日在伟大神灵庇佑下ˇ驰骋在这片辽阔的土地上或安居在幸福家园的强大主人们ˇ到头来将连一个在坟头哀悼的后人都不会留下ˇˇ那是一度曾比你们更强大、更有希望的民族的坟家啊。不过ˇ爲什麽我要对我的人民过早天折的命运哀悼呢?一个部落取代另一个部落ˇ一个民族取代另一个民族ˇ就ˇ大海的波浪ˇ一浪接一浪。这就是自然的法则ˇ悔恨是无济于事的。你们衰败的时日也许还很遥远ˇ但是它终究会到来ˇ因爲即使白人与他的上帝一道漫步、交谈ˇ有如朋友ˇ白人也逃脱不了ˇ同的命运。我们最终可能成爲兄弟。我们等着瞧。

我们将考虑你们的建议ˇ一旦我们作出了决定ˇ便会通知你们。不过ˇ倘若我们接受了你们的建议ˇ此时此地我要提出这个条件ˇ我们将有权不受干扰地祭扫我们祖先、朋友和子女的坟墓。在我的人民看来ˇ这儿的每一寸土地都是神圣的。每一个山坡ˇ每一条山谷ˇ每一块平原和树林都由于一些在那早已ˇ逝的岁月里的悲伤或愉快的事件ˇ而变成了圣地。岩石貌似麻木、毫无生气ˇ但却在那阳光普照的静悄悄的海岸边淌着汗水ˇ颤栗着回ˇ起那些与我的人民联系在一起的动人往事ˇ那片就在你们脚底下的沙土ˇ应他们脚步比起ˇ应你们脚步来ˇ要带着更多的爱与情ˇ因爲它包含着我们祖先的鲜血ˇ而我们赤裸的双足能感觉到它满怀同情的爱抚。我们逝去的勇士、慈ˇ的母亲、欢快的少年ˇ甚至还有孩童ˇ他们曾在这儿生活ˇ曾在这儿庆祝过短暂的时光ˇ他们将热爱这些幽暗僻静的地方。当潮汐平息时ˇ他们在这儿迎候返ˇ人的身影。倘若最后一位红种人也泯灭了ˇ关于我的部落的回忆将成爲白人之间的传说。这些海岸将充满我部落中冥冥不可见的死者ˇ当你们孩子的孩子以爲他们是独自呆在田野上、商店里、店铺里、公路上或者寂静无径的树林里时ˇ他们却并不孤单。在这地球上ˇ没有僻静的地方。深夜ˇ当你们的城市、ˇ村的街道寂静无声的时候ˇ你们以爲这些街道已经被人舍弃了ˇ而实际上ˇ它们却熙熙攘攘挤满了那些还ˇ的主人。他们曾经充斥了这些街道。他们仍然钟情 于这片美丽的土地。白人永远不会孤单的。

愿他公正善良地对待我的人民。死去的并不是无能爲力的。死去的ˇ我这麽说了吗ˇ世上没有死亡ˇ只有转世。

Chief Seattle's Oration

Yonder sky that has wept tears of compassion upon my people for centuries untold, and which to us appears changeless and eternal, may change. Today is fair. Tomorrow it may be overcast with clouds. My words are like the stars that never change. Whatever Seattle says the great chief at Washington can rely upon with as much certainty as he can upon the return of the sun or the seasons. The White Chief says that Big Chief at Washington sends us greetings of friendship and goodwill. This is kind of him for we know he has little need of our friendship in return. His people are many. They are like the grass that covers vast prairies. My people are few. They resemble the scattering trees of a storm-swept plain. The great, and I presume--good White Chief sends us word that he wishes to buy our lands but is willing to allow us enough to live comfortably. This indeed appears just, even generous, for the Red Man no longer has rights that he need respect, and the offer may be wise also, as we are no longer in need of an extensive country.

    There was a time when our people covered the land as the waves of a wind-ruffled sea cover its shell paved floor, but that time long since passed away with the greatness of tribes that are now but a mournful memory. I will not dwell on, nor mourn over, our untimely decay, nor reproach my paleface brothers with hastening it as we too may have been somewhat to blame.

    Youth is impulsive. When our young men grow angry at some real or imaginary wrong, and disfigure their faces with black paint, it denotes that their hearts are black, and that they are often cruel and relentless, and our old men and old women are unable to restrain them. Thus it has ever been. Thus it was when the white men first began to push our forefathers further westward. But let us hope that the hostilities between us may never return. We would have everything to lose and nothing to gain. Revenge by young men is considered gain, even at the cost of their own lives, but old men who stay at home in times of war, and mothers who have sons to lose, know better.

    Our good father at Washington--for I presume he is now our father as well as yours, since King George has moved his boundaries further North--our great and good father, I say, sends us word that if we do as he desires he will protect us. His brave warriors will be to us a bristling wall of strength, and his wonderful ships of war will fill our harbors so that our ancient enemies far to the northward--the Hydas and Tsimpsians, will cease to frighten our women, children and old men. Then in reality will he be our father and we his children. But can that ever be? Your God is not our God! Your God loves your people and hates mine. He folds his strong protecting arms lovingly about the pale face and leads him by the hand as a father leads his infant son--but He has forsaken His red children--if they really are his. Our God, the Great Spirit, seems also to have forsaken us. Your God makes your people wax strong every day. Soon they will fill all the land. Our people are ebbing away like a rapidly receding tide that will never return. The white man's God cannot love our people or He would protect them. They seem to be orphans who can look nowhere for help. How then can we be brothers? How can your God become our God and renew our prosperity and awaken in us dreams of returning greatness. If we have a common heavenly father He must be partial--for He came to His paleface children. We never saw him. He gave you laws but had no word for his red children whose teeming multitudes once filled this vast continent as stars fill the firmament. No; we are two distinct races with separate origins and separate destinies. There is little in common between us.

    To us the ashes of our ancestors are sacred and their resting place is hallowed ground. You wander far from the graves of your ancestors and seemingly without regret. Your religion was written upon tables of stone by the iron finger of your God so that you could not forget. The Red Man could never comprehend nor remember it. Our religion is the traditions of our ancestors--the dreams of our old men, given them in solemn hours of night by the Great Spirit; and the visions of our sachems, and is written in the hearts of our people.

    Your dead cease to love you and the land of their nativity as soon as they pass the portals of the tomb and wander away beyond the stars. They are soon forgotten and never return. Our dead never forget the beautiful world that gave them being. They still love its verdant valleys, its murmuring rivers, its magnificent mountains, sequestered vales and verdant lined lakes and bays, and ever yearn in tender, fond affection over the lonely hearted living, and often return from the Happy Hunting Ground to visit, guide, console and comfort them.

    Day and night cannot dwell together. The Red Man has ever fled the approach of the White Man, as the morning mist flees before the morning sun.

    However, your proposition seems fair and I think that my people will accept it and will retire to the reservation you offer them. Then we will dwell apart in peace, for the words of the Great White Chief seem to be the words of nature speaking to my people out of dense darkness.

    It matters little where we pass the remnant of our days. They will not be many. The Indians' night promises to be dark. Not a single star of hope hovers above his horizon. Sad-voiced winds moan in the distance. Grim fate seems to be on the Red Man's Trail, and wherever he goes he will hear the approaching footsteps of his fell destroyer and prepare stolidly to meet his doom, as does the wounded doe that hears the approaching footsteps of the hunter.

    A few more moons. A few more winters--and not one of the descendants of the mighty hosts that once moved over this broad land or lived in happy homes, protected by the Great Spirit, will remain to mourn over the graves of a people--once more powerful and hopeful than yours. But why should I mourn at the untimely fate of my people? Tribe follows tribe, and nation follows nation, like the waves of the sea. It is the order of nature, and regret is useless. Your time of decay may be distant, but it will surely come, for even the White Man whose God walked and talked with him as friend with friend, cannot be exempt from the common destiny. We may be brothers after all. We will see.

    We will ponder your proposition and when we decide we will let you know. But should we accept it, I here and now make this condition that we will not be denied the privilege without molestation of visiting at any time the tombs of our ancestors, friends and children. Every part of this soil is sacred in the estimation of my people. Every hillside, every valley, every plain and grove, has been hallowed by some sad or happy event in days long vanished. Even the rocks, which seem to be dumb and dead as they swelter in the sun along the silent shore, thrill with memories of stirring events connected with the lives of my people, and the very dust upon which you now stand responds more lovingly to their footsteps than to yours, because it is rich with the blood of our ancestors and our bare feet are conscious of the sympathetic touch. Our departed braves, fond mothers, glad. happy-hearted maidens, and even the little children who lived here and rejoiced here for brief season, -will love these somber solitudes and at eventide they greet shadowy returning spirits. And when the last Red Man shall have perished. and the memory of my tribe shall have become a myth among the White Men, these shores will swarm with the invisible dead of my tribe, and when your children's children think themselves alone in the field, the store, the shop, upon the highway, or in the silence of the pathless woods, they will not be alone. In all the earth there is no place dedicated to solitude. At night when the streets of your cities and villages are silent and you think them deserted, they will throng with the returning hosts that once filled them and still love this beautiful land. The White Man will never be alone.

     Let him be just and deal kindly with my people, for the dead are not powerless. Dead, did I say? There is no death, only a change of worlds.