Congress reopened yesterday. Huerta showed some emotion when, in the morning, Nelson informed him that he could not be present. In the same room that saw its dissolution, the same old Indian, in a business-like speech that would do credit to any ruler, briefly outlined to Congress the work of government, pending detailed reports by the departments. There is a tragic note in the fact that this persecuted government, in the midst of all its anxieties, can discuss such matters as the subterranean hydrology of the plateau, and the sending of delegates to the electro-technic congress, in Berlin. Huerta wound up his speech with these solemn and stirring words:
“Before I leave this hall I must engrave upon your hearts this, my purpose, which on another occasion I communicated to the National Assembly in the most explicit manner—the peace of the republic. If, in order to secure it, the sacrifice of you and of me becomes indispensable, know, once for all, that you and I shall know how to sacrifice ourselves. This is my purpose, my profession of political faith.”
There was immense applause. But his task seems superhuman. To fight the rebels and the United States is not simply difficult—it is impossible.
April 2d. Evening.
Villa talks freely about his plan when he triumphs: first and foremost, it is to execute Huerta and his whole political family, on the principle that the first duty of a “Mexican executive is to execute”; then to set up a dictatorship for a year. The program drips with blood; and these are the people we are bolstering up!
Lind leaves to-night for Washington, so exit from the tragic scene Don Juan Lindo (I sometimes feel like calling him Don Juan Blindo), who commenced life in a Scandinavian town as Jon Lind, and who has ended by dreaming northern dreams in Vera Cruz, in the hour of Mexico’s agony. My heart is unspeakably bewildered at this trick of fate; and, too, he would have long since precipitated us into war had it not been for the shrewd common sense and trained knowledge of the gifted man at the head of the fleet in Vera Cruz....
A hot indignation invades me as Mr. Lind drops out of the most disastrous chapter of Mexican history and returns to Minnesota. (Oh, what a far cry!) Upon his hands the blood of those killed with the weapons of the raising of the embargo—those weapons that, in some day and hour unknown to us, must inevitably be turned against their donors. It is all as certain as death, though there are many who refuse to look even that fact in the face.
I am not keen about the confidential agent system, anyway. With more standing in the community than spies, and much less information, they are in an unrivaled position to mislead (wittingly or unwittingly is a detail) any one who depends on them for information. Apropos of Mr. Lind, one of the foreigners here said it was as if Washington kept a Frenchman in San Francisco to inform them concerning our Japanese relations. For some strange reason, any information delivered by confidential agents, is generally swallowed, hook and all, but unfortunately, the mere designating of them does not bestow upon them any sacramental grace.
April 5th.
Domingo de Ramos (Palm Sunday), with soft wind and warm sun. The palms were blessed at the nine-o’clock Mass in the cathedral. The great pillars of the church were hung with purple; thousands of palms were waving from devout hands, the hands of beggars and the rich alike, and there was some good Gregorian music, instead of the generally rather florid compositions. Near where I knelt was a paralyzed Indian girl, crawling along on the most beautiful hands I have ever seen. Her Calvary is constant.