德龍隨筆
世事洞明皆學問，人情練達即文章
翻譯 德龍
譯者注：
文學城中，我最欽佩的博主就是潤濤閻，沒有之一，隻有唯一。
《西雅圖酋長1854年演說》是在潤濤閻的《美國人的憂患意識來源與假想敵情結》中讀到的。
欽佩歸欽佩，看了他的譯文，感覺與原文有出入，便試著翻譯如下。
千百年來，遠方的蒼穹無數次為我的族人啜泣流淚，我們自以為老天的垂憐永世不變，我們大錯特錯。今天的朗朗晴空，明天許就烏雲沉沉。我的字字句句如星辰般永恒。西雅圖的真言，身在華盛頓那位了不起的酋長毋庸置疑，就像他堅信太陽會升起，四季會更替那般。
白人頭領說華盛頓的那位酋長向我們致以友善的問候。那是他的仁慈，眾所周知，他根本不需要我們的友誼。他麾下千軍萬馬，好比覆蓋著遼闊草原的青草。我的族人卻寥寥無幾，仿佛暴風雨肆虐後，平原上散落的殘樹。
那位了不起，我估計應該不錯的白人酋長，捎話來說，願意買下我們的領土，同時準許我們保留足夠安生立命，豐衣足食的土地。這的確很公平，幾乎慷慨，因為紅種人不再擁有值得他尊重的權力，同時這個條件也很明智，畢竟我們不再需要如此遼闊的疆域。
曾幾何時，我們的人遍布這片疆土，宛若波濤洶湧的海浪覆蓋著貝殼鋪成的海底，可惜這一切早已成為過去，部落曾經的輝煌，如今隻剩下唏噓的回憶。我不會止步不前，不會悲戚我們過早的隕落，更不會叱責白臉兄弟加快了我們衰敗的進程，我們咎由自取。
年少好輕狂。每每我們的小夥兒因為某些真實或臆想的不公而忿憤，用黑漆醜化自己的臉，他們的心胸勢必變得陰暗醜陋，他們十有八九會變得殘酷不仁，而我們的老人，無論男女都無法約束他們。自從白人驅趕著我們的先輩一路向西，這樣的悲劇就在一如既往地上演。但願我們間的對立將永不回頭，否則我們會家破人亡而一無所獲。年輕人以為複仇便是得，即便以自己的性命為代價，而戰亂中留在家中的老人，和失去兒子的母親比他們清楚得多。
華盛頓那位不錯的父親，我估計他現在既是你們的父親，也是我們的了。既然喬治國王已將他的國界向北縱深，依我看，我們了不起，不錯的父親，不如下書說，倘若我們按他的意願行事，他就會保我們周全。他無畏的戰士將是捍衛我們的城牆，他精良的戰艦將布滿我們的港灣，我們北方古老的宿敵，海達人和慈姆仙人，就會停止對我們的婦女，孩子和老人的威脅。如此，他才真真正正成為我們的父親，我們才真真正正成為他的子民。這會實現嗎？你們的神並不是我們的神！你們的神愛你的人民，卻恨我的！神用強健的臂膀慈祥地嗬護白臉孩子，牽著他的手，猶如慈父牽著自己的幼子。可是，神拋棄了他的紅孩子，假設他們果真是他的孩子。我們的神，偉大的神靈，似乎也拋棄了我們。你們的神使你們日益壯大。不用多久，他們將占滿所有的疆土。而我們的族人卻在急速遞減，就像疾疾退去的潮水，一去不回頭。白人的神不會愛我們，不然他就會保護我們。我們成了無處求助的孤兒。你我怎麽會親如兄弟？你們的神怎麽會成為我們的神，讓我們重新繁榮，激發我們重返輝煌的夢想？假如我們有同一位天父，他一定是偏心的，因為他隻光顧他白臉的孩子，我們從未見過他。神給了你們律法，卻不曾給他紅孩子們留下隻言片語，紅孩子曾在這片大陸上活力四射，如同布滿蒼穹的繁星。我們是兩個截然不同的種族，有著不同的起源，和不同的歸宿。我們間幾乎沒有共性。
對我們而言，先人的骨灰是神聖的，他們的安息之所便是聖地。你們遠離自己祖先的墓地，在外遊蕩，沒有絲毫遺憾。你們的信仰是你們的神用鐵指寫在石板上，令你們永世不忘。紅種人永遠不會理解，也不會記住你們的信仰。我們的信仰沿襲我們的先祖，是我們長老的夢想，偉大神靈在莊嚴的夜晚賦予他們的夢想；是我們酋長的憧憬，刻劃在我們人民的心裏。
你們的死者，一旦跨過墳墓的大門，便在星際外遊蕩，不再愛戀你們，也不再眷戀自己的故土。他們很快就被遺忘，永遠不會歸來。我們的死者永遠不會忘卻這個生存過的美麗世界。他們依舊深愛著蔥鬱的山穀，潺潺的河流，壯麗的山巒，深幽的峽穀，翠綠的湖泊和海灣，時時不忘給孤獨的世人帶去綿綿愛意，常常返回令人心悅的獵場，探望，指引，寬慰，安撫自己的親人。
晝和夜不能共存。白種人一來，紅種人便逃之夭夭，正如晨霧在初升的朝陽來臨前，便不見了蹤影。不管怎麽說，你們的提議很公平，我相信我的族人會接受的，他們會退歸你們劃分的保留區。隨後我們便可和平地分道揚鑣。那位了不起的白人酋長的話，仿佛大自然在向我的族人訴說，把他們帶出森然的黑暗。
至於我們在何處度過殘生，無所謂了。我們的餘時不多。印第安人的夜晚注定黑暗，沒有一顆希望之星會在他的地平線上徘徊。風在遠處悲歌，嚴酷的命運與紅種人如影隨形，無論何處，當印第安人聽到殘暴的驅逐者臨近的腳步，他便會木訥地準備接受自己的厄運，如同受傷的母鹿聽聞獵人靠近的步伐。
再有幾度月缺月圓，再過幾個數九寒天，曾經馳騁在這片廣闊大地上威武的主人，曾經蒙受偉大的神靈庇佑，在幸福的家庭安居樂業的人們，他們的後裔中，將無一人會繼續在先人的墳前祭奠，而他們的先人曾比你們的先人更強大，更樂觀。我何必為我的族人過早的衰敗而悲戚？部落取代部落，國家征服國家，猶如大海的波濤，前赴後繼。這是自然規律，後悔無益。你們衰敗的時日或許還很遙遠，但它必將來臨。即便是白人，有摯友般的神與彼同行攀談，最終的命運必將與我們殊途同歸，無法幸免。最終我們或許真成了難兄難弟。我們拭目以待。
我們會推敲你們的提議，等決定了，便知會你們。但是倘若我們接受了這些條款，我此時此地先提一項條件：任何時候，我們都有權為我們的先人，朋友和孩子掃墓，且不被騷擾。在我族人的意識裏，這裏的每寸土地都是神聖的，每一個山坡，每一個峽穀，每一個平原和每一個叢林，在過去久遠的日子裏，都因某個喜事或浩劫而被神化。即便是岩石，在悶熱的陽光下，沿著寂靜的海岸，顯得那麽愚鈍，沒有生氣，它們也會因記起和我的族人息息相關，轟轟烈烈的往事，而興奮不已。你們腳下的塵埃，對我們的腳步，會反應更親切，畢竟土壤裏飽含著我們先人的鮮血，我們光著的腳能感悟到它會意的觸摸。我們逝去的勇士，慈藹的母親，快樂無憂的少女，甚至是欣喜地在這兒短短生活過幾年的孩童，都喜歡陰鬱無人出沒的地方，黃昏時分，他們會迎接幽幽歸來的亡靈。倘若終有一天，最後的紅種人消亡了，我的部族便成了白人傳頌的神話，這些海岸將飄滿我族人的亡靈。當你們孩子的孩子認為自己在田野，商鋪，公路，或寂靜無路的林子裏獨處時，他們並非獨處。這裏的每寸土地，沒有一個地方可以獨享。夜幕中，你所在的城市，鄉村的街道寂寥無聲，你以為那裏無人問津，其實街上卻擠滿了曾經的主人歸來的亡靈，他們依舊愛戀著這片美麗的土地。白人永遠不會孤單。
但願他能公平善待我的族人，因為死人並非完全無能。死人，我是這麽說的？世間沒有死亡，隻有交替輪回。
（原文）
"CHIEF SEATTLE'S 1854 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 land 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 man began to push our forefathers ever 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 in 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 Haidas and Tsimshians -- will cease to frighten our women, children, and old men. Then in reality he will 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 paleface and leads him by the hand as a father leads an 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 stronger 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 tablets of stone by the iron finger of your God so that you could not forget. The Red Man could never comprehend or remember it. Our religion is the traditions of our ancestors -- the dreams of our old men, given them in solemn hours of the 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 this 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 Indian's 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 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 to 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 the 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 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 a 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.
