On July 21, 1919, Clemenceau received a telephone call in his office informing him that Germany had accepted the peace treaty, and he was overjoyed.
He rose to his feet, shook hands with the ministers and colleagues present, and exclaimed, “Gentlemen!
I have been waiting for this very moment for nineteen years!”
What boundless joy those words conveyed.
Yet beyond mere happiness, they also carried a profound sense of sorrow.
In 1871, when Wilhelm I and Bismarck stood triumphantly at Versailles to accept France’s instrument of surrender, how elated they must have felt!
That occasion ultimately led to the present war.
Even then, their exultation was tinged with deep anguish.
From 1806 to 1815, Napoleon had ravaged Germany, dismembering its states, occupying its territories, and dissolving its armies.
The Prussian king had been forced to submit, becoming a vassal and paying tribute.
How delighted Napoleon must have been!
But that episode too culminated in the war of 1871.
Once again, Napoleon’s jubilation was laced with bitter pain.
Between 1789 and 1790, Germany and Austria formed part of the grand Holy Alliance against revolutionary France, fiercely opposing the principles of liberty and popular sovereignty.
They repeatedly invaded French soil, even laying siege to Paris.
As a result, Napoleon emerged, went on to conquer Germany, and inflicted untold suffering upon the German people.
If we examine history through the lens of cause and effect, we see that joy and sorrow are inextricably linked; they cannot be separated.
When one side reaches the height of elation, the other is invariably plunged into profound grief.
Consider the terms of this peace treaty alongside Napoleon’s treatment of Germany: What difference is there between partitioning the German states, seizing German lands, and disbanding the German military?
Clemenceau’s overwhelming delight corresponded precisely to the Germans’ abject misery.
Mark my words: within ten to twenty years, you French will once again face a grave headache.
Let the young people of today take heed of these words.


Commentary No. 2 by Zhang Jiang, July 21, 1919


• Former Emperor Charles of Austria has taken refuge in Switzerland.
A Japanese correspondent sought an audience but was met only by his attendants.
They explained, “The Emperor’s abdication was not voluntary; it was a matter of necessity.
For now, he remains in seclusion and keeps no political affairs.”
Those who have once held imperial power rarely lose the desire to rule again—nor do officials ever truly relinquish their ambitions.
Such psychological habits are deeply ingrained.
Westerners tend to resolve matters decisively; throughout history, numerous monarchs have been executed: Charles I of England in 1648, Louis XVI of France in 1793, and Nicholas II of Russia in 1918—all believed to have been necessary steps to eradicate the root of future trouble.
Napoleon, imprisoned on Saint Helena, remarked that any successor to him would surely be tried by the Allied powers—a remarkably lenient fate.
Similarly, Charles of Austria, hiding in Switzerland, and Puyi, residing quietly in Beijing, remain potential sources of unrest unless carefully monitored.
Otherwise, they will inevitably become new seeds of conflict.

On July 21, 1919, the former Hunan intellectual community—the intellectual sphere of Hunan—had been utterly dim for nearly a decade.
Just a year earlier, Tan Sitong and others had founded the Southern Society in Hunan, inviting prominent figures such as Liang Qichao and Mai Menghua.
Together, they established the Shiwu Academy in Changsha, launched the Xiang Daily and the Shiwu Journal, sparking a vibrant intellectual movement.
This upsurge reflected a collective yearning among scholars to break free from centuries of stagnation under a vast empire, battered by foreign powers.
Recognizing the futility of relying solely on ancient traditions like the Great Wall or coastal defenses to repel invading cavalry and modern warships, they fervently advocated for reform and national rejuvenation.
It was a pivotal moment in China’s history, and Hunan played a central role in this transformative shift.

But what kind of thought prevailed at that time?
Where did the intellectual center lie?
To answer these questions, we must first acknowledge that the prevailing mindset was one of hubris: notions such as “studying Western learning” or “humbly observing others” were merely pretexts for adopting foreign methods while maintaining an air of superiority.
Many harbored the illusion that, given enough time—perhaps ten or twenty years—they could master foreign innovations and thereby achieve self-strengthening.
Once that goal was attained, they imagined confronting foreign aggressors head-on or even routing them completely.
It was akin to a child, stung by another’s taunts, secretly retrieving a stick late at night, intending to retaliate in the morning.
In essence, “Western learning” and “new methods” were nothing more than that child’s makeshift weapon.

Secondly, the intellectual climate was hollow.
A glance at the publications promoting reform during that period reveals this clearly: they were filled with empty rhetoric and emotional appeals, yet lacked substantive engagement with real social and human issues.
There was a widespread enthusiasm for establishing schools, pursuing local autonomy, and demanding parliamentary representation; however, most participants were simply joining the bandwagon.
This herd mentality stifled genuine inquiry into practical problems and truth.

Thirdly, the dominant intellectual framework was “Chinese learning as the foundation, Western learning for practical use.”
The belief persisted that China was a civilization renowned for its culture and rites, while the West excelled only in science and technology.
Acquiring even this limited knowledge seemed sufficient.
Any dissenting views risked being branded as “infatuated with European trends,” drawing lifelong scorn.

Finally, Confucianism remained the ideological cornerstone.
While movements advocating anti-Manchu sentiment and representative government gained momentum, and efforts to abolish the imperial examination system and promote modern education intensified, no one dared challenge Confucius himself.
On the contrary, absurd doctrines such as “morality must be rooted in antiquity” were actively propagated.
This notion was merely a euphemism for reverting to Confucian teachings.
Such attitudes were pervasive across China, with Hunan situated somewhere in the middle.

Thus, although intellectual currents shifted, the transformation remained superficial—vague, blind, and excessive.
From the Hundred Days’ Reform to the present day, Hunan’s intellectual landscape has been dominated by these broad, haphazard, and exaggerated changes.
Despite over a decade of embracing new ideas, Hunan has yet to develop a distinct scholarly tradition.
Its traditional schools of Song Neo-Confucianism and Han textual scholarship had flourished until about ten years ago, but since then, no lasting intellectual trends have emerged.
With academies giving way to modern schools and students increasingly drawn to scientific pursuits, these older traditions have gradually faded into obscurity.

The fundamental reason for this lack of sustained intellectual vitality lies in the absence of a coherent central ideology.
Several factors contribute to this deficiency: first, there were no pure academic societies; second, no universities existed; third, very few individuals studied abroad—in the West, many went primarily to secure employment or out of vanity, making it difficult to pursue specialized research; those who studied in Japan often became absorbed in political activism led by Huang Xing.
Moreover, constant political turmoil left no respite for serious scholarly work.
These circumstances explain why Hunan’s intellectual sphere has never established a clear guiding principle.

Since the Xinhai Revolution, unqualified educators and opportunistic urban elites have perpetuated a muddled state of affairs based on half-baked understandings.
Under such conditions, fostering a genuine intellectual culture has proven all but impossible.

However, in recent years, a significant shift has occurred in China.
Cai Yuanpei, Jiang Kanghu, Wu Jingheng, Liu Shifu, Chen Duxiu, and others spearheaded a wave of intellectual renewal.
This movement encompassed philosophy, literature, politics, religion, and the arts, challenging long-held assumptions across all domains.
Even fundamental questions—such as the nature of the state, the structure of the family, the purpose of marriage, and the appropriate balance between private and public ownership—became subjects of urgent debate.
Adding to this ferment was World War I, which catalyzed the Russian Revolution and spread revolutionary ideas from west to east.
Scholars at Peking University were among the first to embrace these new currents, inspiring youth nationwide to join the movement.

By the time the tide reached Hunan, the Jianxue Society was formally established.
On June 5th, Provincial Education Association President Chen Runlin convened teachers from various schools in the provincial capital, including Xu Teli, Zhu Jianfan, Tang Song, Cai Xiang, Zhong Guo, Yang Da, Li Yunhang, Xiang Shaoxuan, Peng Guojun, Fang Kegang, Ouyang Ze, He Binglin, Li Jingqiao, and Zhao Yiyi, to launch the society.
The inaugural meeting was held at the Chuyi School.

According to a report published in a local newspaper, President Chen expressed his optimism following a recent visit to Beijing.
Four years prior, he had observed that university students there viewed official careers as their sole aspiration, a mindset shared by students both inside and outside higher education institutions.
During his latest trip, however, he witnessed a striking transformation: students had developed a keen awareness of life’s true priorities, a shift vividly reflected in various journals and magazines.
Consequently, students across Beijing began mobilizing for a national salvation movement.

This change was largely attributable to Cai Zimin, who, as president of Peking University, infused the campus with philosophical and existential insights, fundamentally reshaping students’ outlook.
Some mistakenly attributed this awakening to political manipulation, unaware that it arose organically from the interplay between old and new perspectives.

Following the Russian Revolution, socialist ideas gradually permeated East Asia.
Although diverse factions emerged, the overall trend proved unstoppable.
For instance, the Japanese government, historically hostile to socialist forces, recently permitted their activities.
Figures like Dr. Yoshino advocated for a moderate form of socialism aligned with global trends, suggesting a gradual transition toward a constitutional monarchy modeled after Britain.
This illustrates the rapid pace and far-reaching impact of shifting intellectual currents worldwide.

China’s own intellectual renaissance, while promising, cannot be indefinitely suppressed; it demands timely guidance and proper direction.
Members of the Jianxue Society gathered to adopt sound principles and engage in thorough scholarly inquiry.

During the meeting, speeches were delivered by Zhu Jianfan, urging members to set aside prejudices and approach new ideas with an open mind, and by Xiang Shaoxuan, advocating for the adoption of national socialism.
This marked a historic moment in Hunan’s intellectual history.

The society’s charter, reproduced below, outlines its objectives: to introduce and study new global ideas collaboratively, with dissemination as its ultimate goal.
The organization was named the Jianxue Society.
Its temporary headquarters were established at the Chuyi Primary School in Changsha.
Membership was open to anyone committed to scholarly research, provided they were recommended by an existing member.
The society would collect and make available to its members recently published books and periodicals, allowing them to borrow materials reported by fellow members.
Contributions of additional resources were particularly welcome.
Members were encouraged to maintain contact with peers both domestically and internationally, exchanging information and facilitating discussions with notable figures.
Research would focus on philosophy, education, psychology, logic, literature, aesthetics, sociology, political science, and related fields, with each member assigned a specific topic for investigation.
Particularly important issues would be addressed collectively.
Those interested in learning foreign languages would receive instruction from fellow members.
Public outreach would take two forms: regular and ad hoc lectures.
Regular sessions were scheduled every Sunday morning from 8:00 to 10:00 a.m., with speakers rotating among members.
Topics and speakers were determined the preceding Sunday.
Speakers were required to prepare manuscripts, which would be compiled and published by the society.
Ad hoc lectures would be convened as needed for significant topics, either by members themselves or by invited experts, with venues and dates arranged separately.
The society appointed dedicated personnel to manage accounting and library operations, while other administrative tasks would be handled collaboratively by all members.
Each meeting would elect a temporary chairperson.
Members were expected to adhere to the following code of conduct: (1) Punctuality; (2) A spirit of inquiry; (3) Mutual support in scholarly pursuits; (4) Freedom of academic discussion; (5) Rejection of formalities and emphasis on sincerity.
Annual membership dues were set at one yuan or more, with special contributions gratefully welcomed.
Should urgent matters arise, the society reserved the right to convene an extraordinary meeting after a regular lecture to deliberate collectively.
Provisions (5), (6), (7), and (9) of the charter were especially significant.
The ninth provision, promoting a spirit of inquiry, aimed to dispel arrogance and complacency, representing a commendable intention.
It further encouraged cultivating a critical mindset alongside inquisitiveness.
Much of contemporary scholarship owes its progress to individual insight.
At the heart of this process lies the “I”—the unique personality.
In Chinese culture, it is customary to avoid direct criticism or quoting living individuals, creating an inverse relationship between candor and influence.
We should embrace our own thoughts and ideas, letting them shine brightly like the sun or radiate outward like underwater lights, regardless of whether others agree or disagree.
Our sole criterion should be whether something aligns with our inner conviction and truth.
What Mr. [name withheld] said about the majority of Chinese people being slaves struck me as remarkably accurate.
The seventh provision, encouraging free academic discourse, perfectly embodies the principles of freedom of thought and expression.
This is precisely what makes human intellect so precious and worthy of celebration.
However, scholarly inquiry must eschew dogmatic reasoning.
Concepts such as “respect for teachers precedes respect for the Way,” “teacher-centered instruction,” “lineage of teaching,” and “sectarian divisions” all reflect rigid, authoritarian approaches that dominate much of China’s intellectual landscape.
While we may oppose Confucianism for various reasons, its monopolization of intellectual discourse has stifled freedom and kept us enslaved to outdated paradigms for millennia.
Therefore, we must strive to dismantle such entrenched hierarchies.
The Jianxue Society’s primary objectives are to study and disseminate cutting-edge scholarship, with current efforts concentrated on research.
Members have traveled to Beijing and Shanghai to acquire books, newspapers, and journals.
A basic English class has been organized in the provincial capital to facilitate direct engagement with Western scholarship.
Many members in their forties and fifties have shown great enthusiasm for learning.
Additionally, a series of lectures has been planned, allowing members to share their insights and exchange knowledge.
Remarkably, officials accustomed to a formal demeanor have suddenly embraced a more humble and inquisitive attitude.
Though some may still find fault, pointing out lingering bureaucratic tendencies or overly authoritative delivery, others view this as a natural progression.
Indeed, such perfectionist critiques seem unnecessary.
In Hunan, a region characterized by its delicate beauty and somber atmosphere, this initiative represents a meaningful step toward breaking free from confinement and alleviating frustration.
As the dawn breaks in the East and echoes resonate through the valleys, we should wholeheartedly welcome this development, hoping it will serve as a catalyst for transforming Hunan.
Judging by the topics discussed in their four lectures—such as “Misconceptions about Life and Death Among the Chinese People,” “How Should One Live?”
“Education and Vernacular Writing,” and “Adopting Dewey’s Educational Philosophy”—it appears that these goals could be achieved if the lectures were made more accessible to a wider audience.
Widespread listening would greatly accelerate dissemination and yield immeasurable benefits.
France regards Germany with the same fear one might harbor toward tigers and wolves.
Despite Germany’s crushing defeat, France continues to hold it in high regard.
The Saar coal mines were ceded to France, the Rhineland was placed under French administration, the Siegfried Line was dismantled, and France supported the independence of Poland to constrain Germany’s eastern expansion and aided Czechoslovakia’s emergence as a buffer state to block its southward advance.
Germany’s annexation of Austria posed a direct challenge to the principle of national self-determination, prompting vigorous opposition from France.
Furthermore, Germany’s colonial holdings, naval, land, and air forces were significantly reduced, and merchant shipping was largely surrendered to prevent the revival of its overseas trade.
Yet even these measures proved insufficient, leading France to seek guarantees from Britain and the United States.
Earlier that day, Wilson had agreed, before leaving France, to sign a treaty ensuring American assistance should France come under attack.
Lloyd George, speaking on behalf of Britain, likewise signed a similar agreement.
How profound—and how bittersweet—these arrangements were!
Given France’s inherent pride and dignity, why should it resort to such desperate pleas for protection, as though it were a defenseless woman or child?
I believe this behavior reflects poorly on France.
General Smuts stated on July 28, 1919: “My signing of this treaty was not because I found it satisfactory.
It was necessary to conclude the war.”
He added, “There is no mention in this document of a new era, of humanity’s triumph over militarism, or of people’s aspirations for a new international order and a better world.
Only the genuine, heartfelt intentions of ordinary citizens can resolve the complex political dilemmas that persist within the treaty itself.”
He further noted, “I regret that the treaty does not go far enough in abolishing militarism, limiting its scope solely to enemy nations.”
As a British soldier and one of the signatories, Smuts’s subsequent remarks offer valuable insight into the treaty’s underlying spirit.
On July 21, 1919, Reuters reported from Paris: “Rumors are circulating once again about a secret German-Japanese pact.
What exactly is such a pact?
Are some people attempting to uncover further secret agreements in the future?
And what, precisely, constitutes a German-Japanese pact?
The alleged German-Russian pact announced by Lenin’s government never materialized and instead brought great embarrassment.
Meanwhile, a German-British-French accord has already put our province of Shandong at risk.
Similar rumors regarding a German-Japanese alliance have surfaced multiple times in the past.
In 1917, it was claimed that Germany had granted Japan unrestricted control over Dutch colonies, including Java and Sumatra, a revelation that prompted the Dutch government to inform the British authorities, effectively thwarting the conspiracy.
We must recognize that Japan and Germany have long engaged in covert diplomatic maneuvers, and even failed attempts at collusion leave lasting impressions.
With Japan’s powerful military regime and Germany’s unstable political environment remaining unchanged, the potential for further intrigue persists.
On July 21, 1919, Smuts declared: “Only the genuine intentions of the people can resolve the intricate political challenges embedded within this treaty.”
Why do the people’s true desires differ so markedly from those of politicians?
Why are citizens generally less apprehensive than policymakers?
Is there a deeper explanation for this disparity?
I have long suspected that the very concept of “politician” may be flawed.
Now, I possess concrete evidence to support this view.
Following the signing of the Treaty of Versailles, Lloyd George returned to Britain and delivered a speech in the House of Commons: “Our successes stem from the remarkable unity and resilience of the British nation.
We should celebrate these achievements without succumbing to the illusion that our struggles are now behind us.
We must preserve this spirit of victory to confront future challenges.
We must avoid wasting energy on internal disputes.”
This, he argued, is the true hallmark of effective leadership—their ability to unite rather than divide.
By refraining from infighting, we allow the people to focus on addressing pressing concerns such as hardship, legitimate grievances, and trivial matters, rather than engaging in fruitless debates with the government.
After all, we will undoubtedly face new conflicts with other nations in the future.
Patriotism, enthusiasm, unity, and international engagement remain paramount.
I hereby declare to Lloyd George and others like him: your lengthy pronouncements are baseless fabrications—mere nonsense.
We have awakened.
We are no longer the same people we once were.
Please cease your deceptive rhetoric.
Two weeks prior, a massive thunderstorm struck Changsha, resulting in several fatalities due to lightning strikes.
A small house beneath an ancient tree on Yue Lu Mountain was also destroyed.
The city’s drainage systems are severely polluted, and electrical hazards are rampant.
Elevated towers equipped with lightning rods should be erected in multiple locations.
Building structures directly beneath large trees is ill-advised, a fact that everyone ought to understand.
Unfortunately, the police force in Changsha—whose jurisdiction covers over three hundred thousand residents—has neither the time nor the inclination to address these issues.
Some even claim that “five hundred bolts of divine wrath descended from the heavens,” leaving victims unaware of the cause of death.
Poor creatures, reduced to lifeless corpses.
Yet, when one looks at the scene, law enforcement officers stand idly by beside the deceased.
This was not the case in Changsha just a few years ago.
Officers, please pay closer attention.