A Victorious General’s Lingering Anxiety

In the aftermath of the Taiping Rebellion’s suppression, the Qing court breathed a collective sigh of relief. Yet for Zeng Guofan, the celebrated general and architect of the Qing victory, there was no respite. Even as accolades poured in and the empire celebrated the reestablishment of order, Zeng perceived a threat far more dangerous than the Taiping rebels—one that would challenge China’s very foundations.

This new adversary was not domestic, but foreign: the Western powers. While Zeng had been fully engaged in the critical campaign for Anqing against the Taiping forces, events in the north had taken a dramatic turn. The Second Opium War had erupted, culminating in the Anglo-French expedition’s capture of Beijing and the Xianfeng Emperor’s hurried flight to Rehe. When news of these events reached Zeng in September 1860, he was overcome with emotion. His diary entry from the third day of the ninth month that year records his profound distress: upon learning that imperial forces had retreated to Rehe and foreign troops were within twenty miles of the capital, he “wept bitterly, not knowing what course to take.”

Though Zeng ultimately decided against diverting troops northward to defend the emperor, his anguish was genuine. The subsequent burning of the Old Summer Palace at Yuanmingyuan deepened his despair. In another diary entry, he expressed his pain upon receiving confirmation that foreign forces had entered Beijing and put the imperial gardens to the torch, writing that he was “so wounded and pained, there were no words to express it.”

The Shock of Humiliation

Zeng’s distress reached its peak when he studied the terms of the Convention of Beijing, signed in November 1860. Reading the specifics of the treaty—which expanded foreign concessions, legalized opium trade, imposed massive indemnities, and granted missionaries broad access to China’s interior—Zeng was moved to tears. He compared the situation to the Wu Hu incursions that had ravaged China during the Jin Dynasty, but concluded that the current crisis was even more dire.

It was at this moment that Zeng fully internalized the unique nature of the Western threat. In his own words, he came to fear “not the bandit dogs, but the foreign devils.” The Taiping Rebellion, though devastating, represented a familiar pattern in Chinese history—a domestic uprising born from misgovernment and popular discontent. The Western powers, by contrast, were something entirely new. These fair-haired, blue-eyed foreigners did not arrive on horseback wearing animal skins, but in swift steamships wearing tailored suits. They carried not bows and arrows, but advanced firearms and artillery. Unlike nomadic invaders who raided during times of scarcity, these Westerners arrived like an unceasing tide, battering China’s vulnerable coastline and threatening to overwhelm the nation entirely.

The Evolution of a Worldview

Zeng’s initial perspective on foreign affairs differed little from that of his contemporaries in the Qing bureaucracy. Steeped in the tradition of Sino-centric diplomacy, he viewed China as the celestial empire and foreign nations as tributary states who ought to acknowledge Chinese superiority.

During the First Opium War , Zeng had commented in personal letters that the British “swarmed into Dinghai like wild boars,” but he expressed confidence that the emperor’s magnanimity would ultimately prevail. While he acknowledged Western “strong ships and effective guns,” he saw this military advantage as temporary rather than transformative. To Zeng and many of his peers, the First Opium War represented a conventional defeat—similar to setbacks the Ming had suffered against Japanese pirates or the Qing themselves had experienced at Ulan Butong. With better generals and greater determination, China could surely prevail in future conflicts.

As late as 1850, Zeng maintained that Qing institutions were fundamentally sound, writing that “our dynasty’s governance has established complete and detailed regulations that should not be lightly questioned.” Even in 1858, he suggested to his colleague Zuo Zongtang that China could indeed fight the foreigners successfully if competent commanders were selected, blaming the First Opium War defeat primarily on poor leadership.

A Transformation Through Trauma

The Second Opium War fundamentally altered Zeng’s understanding. Two aspects of the conflict particularly shocked him and forced a reevaluation of Western capabilities and intentions.

First, the military disparity proved far greater than he had imagined. Unlike the First Opium War, in which the Qing had not committed their best forces, the Second Opium War saw the deployment of China’s most elite troops—the Mongol cavalry under Senggelinqin. At the Battle of Baliqiao, these celebrated horsemen charged against British and French positions only to be decimated by modern artillery and rifles. While Qing forces suffered thousands of casualties, Allied losses numbered merely five dead. Zeng realized that Qing military technology and tactics belonged to a different era altogether—no amount of courage or strategic genius could bridge this technological chasm. He concluded that in China’s weakened state, it was “impossible to compete even over the tip of an awl.”

Second, Western behavior following victory defied historical precedent. Unlike earlier conquerors—such as the Mongols or Manchus—who sought to establish new dynasties, the Western forces did not attempt to overthrow the Qing government. They plundered and burned the Yuanmingyuan, but left the Forbidden City and other symbols of political authority untouched. This selective destruction signaled that their objectives were not territorial conquest but commercial access and diplomatic equality. Even more surprisingly, after defeating Qing forces, the Western powers immediately offered assistance in suppressing the Taiping Rebellion.

From Recognition to Response

These realizations launched Zeng on a journey that would ultimately transform him from a traditional Confucian statesman into a pioneer of China’s modernization. His initial despair gave way to pragmatic adaptation. If Western weapons were so effective, China must learn to produce them. If Western nations operated under different diplomatic principles, China must learn to engage with them accordingly.

Zeng began studying Western technology and military organization, establishing the first modern arsenals and supporting educational missions to send Chinese students abroad. He advocated for strategic engagement with foreign powers rather than blanket resistance, recognizing that China needed time to strengthen itself. His approach would later be summarized as “using barbarians to control barbarians” and “learning their superior techniques to control them.”

This pragmatic adaptation did not mean abandonment of Chinese values. Rather, Zeng sought to preserve Confucian civilization by adopting the tools necessary for its survival. His transformation mirrored China’s painful entry into the modern international system—a journey from confident isolation to humbled engagement, and eventually to selective modernization.

The Legacy of a Reluctant Reformer

Zeng Guofan’s response to the Western challenge established a pattern that would influence Chinese foreign policy for generations. His combination of cultural conservatism with technological pragmatism laid the groundwork for the Self-Strengthening Movement of the late 19th century. While ultimately insufficient to prevent further humiliations, his approach represented China’s first systematic effort to respond to the industrial and military power of the West.

Historians have debated Zeng’s legacy extensively. Some criticize him for preserving a corrupt dynasty and adopting Western techniques too selectively. Others praise his pragmatic recognition that China needed to change to survive. What remains undeniable is that his confrontation with Western power—and his thoughtful, if reluctant, adaptation—marked a critical turning point in China’s modern history.

The anguish recorded in Zeng’s diaries reflects not just personal distress, but the painful awakening of a civilization realizing that its traditional understanding of the world had become inadequate. His journey from confident traditionalist to pragmatic reformer mirrors China’s broader struggle to find its place in a world order it had not created and did not initially understand. In this respect, Zeng Guofan’s crisis of consciousness in 1860 foreshadowed China’s long and difficult path toward modernization—a path that would wind through repeated humiliations, revolutionary upheavals, and ultimately, dramatic resurgence.