of his desert origin. He had selected his name from the legend of Yin Ch'-ch'i who caused flowers to bloom out of season after their roots had been treated by an Indian drug. Inadvertently he created the impression that he was very old, yet in appearance he was handsome and strong. He spoke with authority, as though he was sure no one would grapple with his words in an endeavor to contradict him, and there was a quality to the even flow of his words that lulled his hearers into a state bordering on drowsiness.
On one occasion, after Ming Huang had eaten a hearty meal, he sent for Chi'i-ch'i to amuse him. Lady T'ai Chên sat at his feet, her head against his knee, her eyes half closed. They were in the Orchid Pavilion at the garden's edge. The waxed-paper translucent windows had been drawn aside so that the green breeze of summer could drift through, with its mingled attar of earth and flowers.
Ch'i-ch'i stepped forward. Every movement was studied, yet apparently careless. He took a large piece of white paper and cut out the figure of a small boy. Several times he tried to stand the boy up, but always he slouched down and fell over.
"Now what have we here?" murmured Ch'i-ch'i, almost as though he were talking to himself. From an invisible shelf on the walls of the wind, he took down a reed instrument. When he blew upon it, the notes were eerie, though not without witchery. He chose festive songs of the ancients that have fascinated since
those far-off days when men seized upon crude musical
