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El Jefe Indio Seathl dirigió entonces una hermosa carta al presidente Franklin K. Pierce, cuyo texto reproducimos en esta página.
El Gran Jefe en Washington manda palabras: él desea comprar nuestra tierra. El Gran Jefe también manda palabras de amistad y bienaventuranza. Esto es muy amable de su parte, ya que nosotros sabemos que él tiene muy poca necesidad de nuestra amistad. Pero nosotros tenemos en cuenta su oferta, porque nosotros sabemos que si no lo hacemos así, el hombre blanco vendrá con sus pistolas y tomará nuestra tierra. Lo que el Jefe Seathl dice es que el Gran Jefe en Washington puede contar con las palabras del Jefe Seathl, como pueden nuestros hermanos blancos contar con el retorno de las estaciones. Mis palabras son como las estrellas. Ellas no se ocultan. ¿Cómo se puede comprar o vender el cielo, el calor de la tierra? Esta idea es extraña para nosotros. Hasta ahora nosotros no somos dueños de la frescura del aire ni del resplandor del agua. ¿Cómo nos lo pueden ustedes comprar? Nosotros decidiremos en nuestro tiempo. Cada porción de esta tierra es sagrada para mi gente. Cada espina de brillante pino, cada orilla arenosa, cada bruma en el oscuro bosque, cada claro y zumbador insecto es sagrado en la memoria y en la experiencia de mi gente.
Nosotros sabemos que el hombre blanco no entiende nuestras costumbres. Para él, un pedazo de tierra es igual a otro; porque él es un extraño que viene en la noche y toma de la tierra lo que necesita. La tierra no es su hermana, sino su enemigo, y cuando la ha conquistado, sigue adelante. Deja las tumbas de sus padres atrás y no le importa. Secuestra la tierra de sus hijos. A él no le importa. Las tumbas de sus padres y los derechos de nacimiento de sus hijos son olvidados. Su apetito devorará la tierra y sólo dejará atrás un desierto. La vista de sus ciudades duele en los ojos del hombre pielroja. Pero, tal vez es porque el hombre pielroja es un salvaje y no entiende...
No hay ningún lugar tranquilo en las ciudades de los hombres blancos. Ningún lugar para escuchar las hojas de la primavera o el susurro de las alas de los insectos. Pero, tal vez es porque yo soy un salvaje y no entiendo. El ruido sólo parece insultar los oídos. Y, ¿qué queda de la vida si el hombre no puede escuchar el hermoso grito del pájaro nocturno o los argumentos de las ranas alrededor de un lago en la noche? El Indio prefiere el suave sonido del viento horadando la superficie de un lago, el olor del viento lavado por una lluvia de mediodía o la fragancia de los pinos. El aire es valioso para el hombre pielroja. Porque todas las cosas comparten la misma respiración: las bestias, los árboles, el hombre. El hombre blanco parece que no notara el aire que respira. Como un hombre que muere por muchos días, es indiferente ante la hediondez.
Si decido aceptar, pondré una condición. El hombre blanco deberá tratar las bestias de esta tierra como hermanas. Yo soy un salvaje y no entiendo otro camino. He visto miles de búfalos, pudriéndose en las praderas, abandonados por el hombre blanco que pasaba en el tren y los mataba. Yo soy un salvaje y no entiendo cómo el caballo de hierro que fuma puede ser más importante que los búfalos que nosotros matamos sólo para sobrevivir. ¿Qué es el hombre sin las bestias? Si todas las bestias desaparecieran, el hombre moriría de una gran soledad en el espíritu, porque cualquier cosa que le pase a las bestias también le pasa al hombre. Todas las cosas están relacionadas. Todo lo que hiere a la tierra herirá también a los hijos de la tierra.
Nuestros hijos han visto a sus padres humillados en la derrota. Nuestros guerreros han sentido la vergüenza. Y después de la derrota convierten sus días en tristezas y contaminan sus cuerpos con comidas dulces y bebidas fuertes. De poca importancia será el lugar en donde pasemos nuestros días -no quedan muchos. Unas pocas horas más, unos pocos inviernos, y ninguno de los hijos de las grandes tribus que una vez existieron sobre esta tierra, o que anduvieron en pequeñas bandas en los bosques, quedará para lamentarse ante las tumbas de una gente que fue otrora poderosa y tan llena de esperanzas como ustedes. Una cosa nosotros sabemos que el hombre blanco puede descubrir algún día. Nuestro Dios es el mismo Dios. Usted puede pensar ahora que es dueño de El, así como usted desea hacerse dueño de nuestra tierra. Pero usted no puede. El es el Dios del hombre. Y su compasión es igual para el hombre blanco y el hombre pielroja. Esta tierra es preciosa para El, y hacerle daño a la tierra es amontonar desprecio en torno a su creador.
Los blancos también pasarán, tal vez más rápido que otras tribus. Continúe contaminando su cama y alguna noche terminará asfixiándose en su propio desperdicio. Cuando los búfalos sean todos masacrados, los caballos salvajes todos amansados, y los rincones secretos de los bosques inundados por el aroma de muchos hombres, y la vista de las montañas repleta de esposas habladoras, ¿en dónde estará el matorral? Desaparecido. ¿En dónde estará el águila? Desaparecida. Y ¿qué es decir adiós a los prados y a la caza, el fin de la vida y el comienzo de la subsistencia? Nosotros tal vez entenderíamos si supiéramos qué es lo que el hombre blanco sueña, qué esperanzas le transmite a sus niños en las noches largas de invierno, qué visiones le queman la mente para que puedan desear el mañana. Pero, nosotros somos salvajes. Los sueños del, hombre blanco están ocultos para nosotros. Y porque tales sueños están escondidos, nosotros iremos por nuestro propio camino.
Si nosotros aceptamos, será para asegurar la reservación que se nos ha prometido.
Allí tal vez podremos vivir como deseamos los pocos días que nos quedan. Cuando el último pielroja haya desaparecido de la tierra y su memoria sea solamente la sombra de una nube cruzando la pradera, éstas costas y éstas tierras aún albergarán el espíritu de mi gente, porque ellos aman esta tierra como el recién nacido ama el latido del corazón de su madre. Si nosotros les vendemos a ustedes nuestra tierra, ámenla como nosotros la hemos amado. Cuídenla como nosotros la hemos cuidado. Retengan en sus mentes el recuerdo de la tierra, tal como está cuando ustedes la tomen, y con todas sus fuerzas, con todo su poderío, y con todos sus corazones, consérvenla para sus hijos, y ámenla así como Dios nos ama a todos. Una cosa nosotros sabemos: nuestro Dios es el mismo Dios de ustedes. Esta tierra es preciosa para El. Aún el hombre blanco no puede quedar excluido de un destino común.
OTRAS VERSIONES
http://www.alg-a.org/spip.php?article44
http://www.otromadrid.org/index.php?ver=leer&id=2952
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http://courses.washington.edu/spcmu/speeches/chiefsealth.htm
H. A. Smith, "Early Reminiscences. Number Ten. Scraps From a Diary. Chief Seattle – A Gentleman by Instinct – His Native Eloquence. Etc., Etc." Seattle Sunday Star, October 29, 1887, p. 3. [UW Microforms Newspapers, Uncat. no. 212 reel 1.] Lacunae filled in from Frederic James Grant, History of Seattle, Washington; With Illustrations and Biographical Sketches of Some of Its Prominent Men and Pioneers, (NY: American Publishing and Engraving Co, Publishers, 1891): 433-436. [UW Special Collections Reference 979.743 G76]
Old Chief Seattle was the largest Indian I ever saw, and by far the noblest looking. He stood six feet full in his moccasins, was broad shouldered, deep chested and finely proportioned. His eyes were large, intelligent, expressive and friendly when in repose, and faithfully mirrored the varying moods of the great soul that looked through them. He was usually solemn, silent and dignified, but on great occasions moved among assembled multitudes like a Titan among, Lilliputians, and his lightest word was law.
When rising to speak in council or to tender advice, all eyes were turned upon him, and deep toned, sonorous and eloquent sentences rolled from his lips like the ceaseless thunders of cataracts flowing from exhaustless fountains, and his magnificent bearing was as noble as that of the most cultivated military chieftain in command of the forces of a continent. Neither his eloquence, his dignity or his grace, were acquired. They were as native to his manhood as leaves and blossoms are to a flowering almond.
His influence was marvelous. He might have been an emperor but all his instincts were democratic, and he ruled his loyal subjects with kindness and paternal benignity.
He was always flattered by marked attention from white men, and never so much as when seated at their tables, and on such occasions he manifested more than anywhere else the genuine instincts of a gentleman.
When Governor Stevens first arrived in Seattle and told the natives that he had been appointed commissioner of Indian affairs for Washington Territory, they gave him a demonstrative reception in front of Dr. Maynard's office, near the water front on Main street. The Bay swarmed with canoes and the shore was lined with a living mass of swaying, writhing, dusky humanity, until old Chief Seattle's trumpet-toned voice rolled over the immense multitude, like the startling reveille of a bass drum, when silence became as instantaneous and perfect as that which follows a clap of thunder from a clear sky.
The governor was then introduced to the native multitude by Dr. Maynard, and at once commenced, in a conversational, plain and straightforward style, an explanation of his mission among them, which is too well understood to require recapitulation.
When he sat down, Chief Seattle arose with all the dignity of a senator, who carries the responsibilities of a great nation on his shoulders. Placing one hand on the governor's head, and slowly pointing heavenward with the index finger of the other, he commenced his memorable address in solemn and impressive tones:
Yonder sky has wept tears of compassion on our fathers for centuries untold, and which, to us, looks eternal, may change. Today it is fair, tomorrow it may be overcast with clouds. My words are like the stars that never set. What Seattle says, the great chief, Washington, [The Indians in early times thought that Washington was still alive. They knew the name to be that of a president, and when the heard of the president at Washington they mistook the name of the city for the name of the reigning chief. They thought, also, that King George was still England's monarch, because the Hudson bay traders called themselves "King George's men." This innocent deception the company was shrewd enough not to explain away for the Indians had more respect for them than they would have had, had they known England was ruled by a woman. Some of us have learned better.] can rely upon, with as much certainty as our pale-face brothers can rely upon the return of the seasons.
The son of the white chief says his father sends us greetings of friendship and good will. This is kind, for we know he has little need of our friendship in return, because his people are many. They are like the grass that covers the vast prairies, while my people are few, and resemble the scattering trees of a storm-swept plain.
The great, and I presume also good, white chief sends us word that he wants to buy our lands but is willing to allow us to reserve enough to live on comfortably. This indeed appears generous, for the red man no longer has rights that he need respect, and the offer may be wise, also, for we are no longer in need of a great country. There was a time when our people covered the whole land, as the waves of a wind-ruffled sea cover its shell-paved floor. But that time has long since passed away with the greatness of tribes now almost forgotten. I will not mourn over our untimely decay, nor reproach my pale-face brothers for hastening it, for we, too, may have been somewhat to blame.
When our young men grow angry at some real or imaginary wrong, and disfigure their faces with black paint, their hearts, also, are disfigured and turn black, and then their cruelty is relentless and knows no bounds, and our old men are not able to restrain them.
But let us hope that hostilities between the red-man and his pale-face brothers may never return. We would have everything to lose and nothing to gain.
True it is, that revenge, with our young braves, is considered gain, even at the cost of their own lives, but old men who stay at home in times of war, and old women, who have sons to lose, know better.
Our great father Washington, for I presume he is now our father as well as yours, since George has moved his boundaries to the north; our great and good father, I say, sends us word by his son, who, no doubt, is a great chief among his people, that if we do as he desires, he will protect us. His brave armies will be to us a bristling wall of strength, and his great ships of war will fill our harbors so that our ancient enemies far to the northward, the Simsiams and Hydas, will no longer frighten our women and old men. Then will he be our father and we will be his children. But can this ever be? Your God loves your people and hates mine; he folds his strong arms lovingly around the white man and leads him as a father leads his infant son, but he has forsaken his red children; he makes your people wax strong every day, and soon they will fill all the land; while my people are ebbing away like a fast-receding tide, that will never flow again. The white man's God cannot love his red children or he would protect them. They seem to be orphans and can look nowhere for help. How then can we become brothers? How can your father become our father and bring us prosperity and awaken in us dreams of returning greatness?
Your God seems to us to be partial. He came to the white man. We never saw Him; never even heard His voice. He gave the white man laws, but He had no word for His red children whose teeming millions filled this vast continent as the stars fill the firmament. No, we are two distinct races and must ever remain so. There is little in common between us. The ashes of our ancestors are sacred and their final resting place is hallowed ground, while you wander away from the tombs of your fathers seemingly without regret.
Your religion was written on tablets of stone by the iron finger of an angry God, lest you might forget it. The red man could never remember nor comprehend it.
Our religion is the traditions of our ancestors, the dreams of our old men, given them 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 homes of their nativity as soon as they pass the portals of the tomb. They wander far off beyond the stars, are soon forgotten, and never return. Our dead never forget the beautiful world that gave them being. They still love its winding rivers, its great mountains and its sequestered vales, and they ever yearn in tenderest affection over the lonely hearted living and often return to visit and comfort them.
Day and night cannot dwell together. The red man has ever fled the approach of the white man, as the changing mists on the mountain side flee before the blazing morning sun.
However, your proposition seems a just one, and I think that my folks will accept it and will retire to the reservation you offer them, and we will dwell apart in peace, for the words of the great white chief seem to be the voice of nature speaking to my people out of the thick darkness that is fast gathering around them like a dense fog floating inward from a midnight sea.
It matters but little where we pass the remainder of our days. They are not many. The Indian's night promises to be dark. No bright star hovers about the horizon. Sad-voiced winds moan in the distance. Some grim Nemesis of our race is on the red man's trail, and wherever he goes he will still hear the sure approaching footsteps of the fell destroyer and prepare 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 all the mighty hosts that once filled this broad land or that now roam in fragmentary bands through these vast solitudes will remain to weep over the tombs of a people once as powerful and as hopeful as your own.
But why should we repine? Why should I murmur at the fate of my people? Tribes are made up of individuals and are no better than they. Men come and go like the waves of the sea. A tear, a tamanamus, a dirge, and they are gone from our longing eyes forever. Even the white man, whose God walked and talked with him, as friend to friend, is not exempt from the common destiny. We may be brothers, after all. We shall see.
We will ponder your proposition, and when we have decided we will tell you. But should we accept it, I here and now make this the first condition: That we will not be denied the privilege, without molestation, of visiting at will the graves of our ancestors and friends. Every part of this country is sacred to my people. Every hill-side, every valley, every plain and grove has been hallowed by some fond memory or some sad experience of my tribe. Even the rocks that seem to lie dumb as they swelter in the sun along the silent seashore in solemn grandeur thrill with memories of past events connected with the fate of my people, and the very dust under your feet responds more lovingly to our footsteps than to yours, because it is the ashes of our ancestors, and our bare feet are conscious of the sympathetic touch, for the soil is rich with the life of our kindred.
The noble braves, and fond mothers, and glad-hearted maidens, and the little children who lived and rejoiced here, and whose very names are now forgotten, still love these solitudes, and their deep fastnesses at eventide grow shadowy with the presence of dusky spirits. And when the last red man shall have perished from the earth and his memory among white men shall have become a myth, these shores shall swarm with the invisible dead of my tribe, and when your children's children shall think themselves alone in the field, the store, the shop, upon the highway or in the silence of the 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 shall be silent and you think them deserted, they will throng with the returning hosts that once filled 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 altogether powerless.
Other speakers followed, but I took no notes. Governor Stevens' reply was brief. He merely promised to meet them in general council on some future occasion to discuss the proposed treaty. Chief Seattle's promise to adhere to the treaty, should one be ratified, was observed to the letter, for he was ever the unswerving and faithful friend of the white man. The above is but a fragment of his speech, and lacks all the charm lent by the grace and earnestness of the sable old orator, and the occasion.
