A Reluctant Mentor at Tsinghua’s Pinnacle

In the autumn of 1924, Tsinghua University was establishing its prestigious Institute of Chinese Studies. President Cao Yunxiang sought to recruit the prominent intellectual Hu Shi as a mentor, but Hu declined with remarkable humility: “Only first-rate scholars deserve such a role. I am unworthy. You must invite Liang Qichao, Wang Guowei, and Zhang Taiyan—true masters who can elevate the institute.”

Among these luminaries, Wang Guowei stood as the most enigmatic. Then serving as a tutor to the deposed Qing emperor Puyi, Wang hesitated—accepting Tsinghua’s offer would distance him from the imperial household. A persuasive letter from his friend Jiang Ruzu tipped the scales: “Tsinghua offers 400 silver dollars monthly, a residence, a library, and no teaching obligations. For you, this is an unmissable opportunity.” But it was Jiang’s closing argument that resonated deeply: “Escape the realm of shadows; embrace clarity. To leave more writings for posterity is our sacred duty.”

Thus, Wang joined Tsinghua alongside Liang Qichao, Chen Yinke, and Zhao Yuanren as the “Four Great Mentors.” The institute’s impact was staggering: though it operated for only four years and graduated just 70 students, over 50 became leading scholars in Chinese literature. Ironically, the man later revered as a “master of traditional learning” had begun his intellectual journey as a devotee of Western thought. How did this transformation unfold?

From Classical Rigidity to Western Enlightenment

Born in 1877 in Haining, Zhejiang, Wang Guowei was a frail child steered by his father toward the Confucian civil-service examinations—the millennium-old path to scholarly prestige. Yet Wang chafed at rote memorization of the “Four Books and Five Classics,” preferring unconventional readings. Despite his indifference, he passed the county-level exams at 15, earning recognition as one of “Haining’s Four Talented Youths.”

His luck faltered in 1892 during provincial exams in Hangzhou. But there, he discovered a world beyond classical texts. As he later recalled in Thirty-Year Autobiography: “At sixteen, I saw a friend reading Records of the Grand Historian and was enthralled. I spent my savings on the Four Great Histories—my true beginning as a reader.” His father, unusually progressive, allowed this intellectual detour. For Wang, the criterion was simple: read what could save the nation. In late-Qing China, that meant Western knowledge.

Shanghai: Where East Met West

Abandoning the examination system, Wang moved to Shanghai in 1898, working as a proofreader for the reformist newspaper Shiwu Bao. Despite poverty, he taught himself German, English, and Japanese, devouring Kant, Schopenhauer, and Nietzsche. Had this trajectory continued, he might have become a Westernizer like Hu Shi. But fate intervened through Luo Zhenyu, founder of the Dongwen Academy where Wang studied.

Noticing Wang’s poetic brilliance—particularly the line “Do you know the grandeur of eternity? At the Black Sea’s eastern edge, one gazes toward Rome”—Luo became his patron, funding his studies in Japan and publishing his early philosophical essays in Educational World. Just as Wang’s academic star rose, Luo delivered a sobering critique: “Nietzsche’s doctrines—scorning benevolence, humility, and restraint—risk cultural catastrophe if transplanted to China.”

Wang was stunned. Western philosophy emerged from Western soil; blind adoption might erode China’s spiritual foundations. As the Ming scholar Gu Yanwu warned, losing tradition meant not just dynastic collapse (wangguo) but civilizational death (wangtianxia). This epiphany reshaped Wang’s scholarship: while continuing Western studies, he immersed himself in Confucianism, Song-Ming neo-Confucianism, and Daoist texts. The synthesis propelled groundbreaking works like Comments on The Dream of the Red Chamber (1904) and Poetic Remarks in the Human World (1908).

The Queue That Defied an Era

Post-1911 Revolution, while others discarded Qing-era queues, Wang kept his braid—a defiant symbol. When his wife questioned this, he replied: “At this point, why bother cutting it?” To him, the queue represented more than loyalty to the fallen dynasty; it was a thread connecting China’s 3,000-year cultural continuum. Amidst the frenzy for Westernization, Wang stood as a solitary guardian of tradition, his long gown and braid marking him as an anachronism.

The Paradox of a Stoic Sage

Colleagues described Wang as austere—unsmiling in photographs, disinterested in theater or leisure. Linguist Zhao Yuanren’s wife, Yang Buwei, admitted avoiding him at faculty gatherings: “His aura commanded involuntary respect.” Yet at home, he transformed. Children interrupting his studies were met not with irritation but playful “eagle-and-chick” games. He recited poetry tirelessly, even attempting clumsy drawings for them. This private warmth contrasted sharply with his public solemnity.

1927: The Final Descent

The 1924 expulsion of Puyi from the Forbidden City wounded Wang deeply. By 1926, as National Revolutionary Army forces advanced north, anti-traditionalist violence escalated. The execution of queue-wearing scholar Ye Dehui in Changsha signaled a cultural purge. When student Jiang Liangfu visited in 1927, Wang confided: “Some urge me to cut my queue. What say you?” Jiang advocated adaptation. Wang’s reply was ominous: “I cannot endure further humiliation.”

On June 2, 1927, after a calm cigarette by Kunming Lake, Wang walked into the water. His pocket held a note: “Fifty years, only death remains. Facing this upheaval, I choose no more disgrace.” Scholar Chen Yinke’s memorial later framed his death not as Qing loyalism but as a defense of intellectual freedom: “Scholars seek liberation from vulgar constraints… His death manifested an independent spirit that will endure as long as heaven and earth.”

Legacy: The Lighthouse in a Storm

Wang Guowei’s suicide symbolized the agony of cultural transition. In an era rejecting tradition, his scholarship—spanning archaeology (Studies on Yinxu Oracle Bones), drama (Song-Yuan Theater Research), and philosophy—became a bridge between ancient and modern China. Today, his Poetic Remarks in the Human World remains foundational in literary criticism, while his interdisciplinary methods inspire global humanities.

Like a flickering lamp in a tempest, Wang’s fragile frame emitted a light that still guides—a testament to the price and power of cultural guardianship.