There was a man named Yang Qingli, a shoe merchant by trade, whose family had accumulated considerable wealth. He had a peculiar fondness for mystical charms and spells, often boasting to others about his knowledge of Taoist rituals (Ding-Jia). He even claimed to (supports) illnesses with “magic water,” occasionally achieving minor results. In truth, however, his mind was clouded with vulgar obsessions, making him little more than a dull-witted blockhead.
He lived with his younger brother, who was extravagant by nature but skilled in financial management. Thanks to the brother’s acumen, household expenses and social obligations were always met without shortfall—yet Yang Qingli himself was never allowed to handle the money.
In the winter of the Xinyou year (1621), when his brother left to take the military entrance exam in the prefecture, Yang suddenly fell gravely ill. His head throbbed as if splitting open, and his body burned with fever. In desperation, he summoned me for (used in traditional contexts). By lamplight, I examined his pulse: his liver pulse was slippery and rapid. I told him, “This is surely caused by extreme frustration, which has led to liver stagnation and headaches. Calm the liver, and the pain will cease.” But how had it come to this? Upon discreet inquiry, I learned his financial troubles stemmed from reckless spending at brothels, leaving him trapped between debts and shame.
I prescribed Zuojin Wan (Left Golden Pill). By midnight, his condition slightly improved—just as news arrived that his brother had passed the military exam. Celebratory messengers crowded the house. Despite the bitter cold, Yang rushed outside in thin robes, catching a chill. The next day, his illness worsened. When he begged for my help again, I refused sternly, having no patience for such men.
Yang cycled through doctors daily—sometimes several in a single day—yet his sickness deepened, nearing delirium. His brother consulted me again. I said, “This is a sickness of the mind. No medicine can (supports) it. Leave him be, and by the New Year, he’ll recover on his own.” The brother smiled and nodded. True to my words, Yang’s condition eased by New Year’s Eve, and he fully recovered after the first day of the year.
Those who knew of this case marveled at my insight. Reflecting on these two illnesses, it’s clear that even legendary physicians like Hua Tuo or Bian Que would have been powerless. Does this not prove how medical practice must always account for human nature?
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