The Mentor and the Protégé: A Pivotal Encounter in Baoding

In the waning years of the Qing Dynasty, as foreign powers encroached upon China’s sovereignty, two of its most prominent statesmen—Zeng Guofan and Li Hongzhang—shared a fateful conversation in Baoding. The aging Zeng, gaunt and weary, seemed revitalized by Li’s presence. Their discussion centered on the Tianjin Massacre, a diplomatic crisis where anti-missionary riots had led to violent reprisals by Western powers. Zeng, ever the pragmatist, cautioned Li: “When we are weak, we must endure humiliation to survive. Rashness belongs to fools, not strategists.”

Li, then ascending to the role of Viceroy of Zhili, proposed dealing with foreigners through cunning—what he called “playing the rogue’s tune” (痞子腔). Zeng dismissed this outright, advocating instead for “sincerity” (诚) as the cornerstone of diplomacy. “Without real strength, no bluff will deceive them,” he argued. This lesson would shape Li’s approach to foreign relations for decades, blending self-strengthening with performative honesty.

The Shadow of the Assassin: The “Ma Xinyi Affair”

The political undercurrents of the era converged in the infamous “Assassination of Ma Xinyi” (刺马案), one of the Qing’s “Four Great Mysteries.” Ma, a rapid riser in the bureaucracy, was widely seen as Empress Dowager Cixi’s pawn to counterbalance Zeng’s Hunan faction. His murder in broad daylight by a man named Zhang Wenxiang sparked rumors implicating the Hunan clique.

Summoned to investigate, Zeng deliberately dragged his feet—taking 36 days to travel from Beijing to Nanjing, a journey that typically required weeks less. His lethargic handling of the case, including delegating interrogations to a baffled imperial envoy, hinted at deeper machinations. The official verdict pinned the crime on Zhang alone, but whispers of Hunan’s involvement persisted. Cixi, though furious, conceded defeat: “From now on, the Liangjiang Viceroy’s seat belongs to the Hunan faction.”

The Weight of Legacy: Zeng’s Final Days

By 1872, Zeng’s health crumbled alongside his morale. Plagued by illness and paranoia, he lamented disbanding the Hunan Army—a move that left him politically neutered. In a last meeting with Li Hongzhang, he delivered a stark warning: “In troubled times, power lies in the barrel of a gun. Never weaken the Huai Army as I did mine.”

His parting advice was equally striking. Despite a lifelong rivalry with the brilliant but abrasive Zuo Zongtang, Zeng named him as a crucial “seed” for China’s future: “Our clashes were about policy, not malice. His talent is real.” This unexpected endorsement revealed Zeng’s unwavering pragmatism.

Epitaph of a Paradox: “Trust Fate, Not Books”

On March 12, 1872, Zeng collapsed after a garden stroll. With his final breaths, he dictated a cryptic epitaph: “Do not trust books; trust only fate.” The irony was palpable—a man whose Family Letters extolled self-improvement now dismissed the very ideals he’d preached. As his spirit waned, a bizarre omen unfolded: centipedes on the ceiling burst into dust, echoing a prophecy from his childhood—”Dragon, dragon, dragon!”

Zeng’s death marked the end of an era. His lessons—on diplomacy, power, and uneasy alliances—would echo through Li Hongzhang’s career and the Qing’s turbulent decline. Yet his ultimate confession, “fate over effort,” laid bare the disillusionment of a man who’d spent a lifetime upholding systems he no longer believed in.

In the end, the astute strategist became history’s reluctant realist, leaving behind not answers, but enduring questions about agency and destiny in a crumbling empire.