So much for ballet criticism in New York in 1920. The tour had to go on with Fokina alone, although Fokine had recovered sufficiently to hobble about and to supervise and direct and oversee. A certain Mr. K. had associated himself as a sort of local representative. Mr. K. was not much of a local manager; but he did have an unholy talent for cheque-bouncing. It was not a matter of one or two, due to some error; they bounded and bounced all over the country in droves, and daily. If the gods that be had seen fit to give me a less sound nervous system than, happily, they have, K.’s financial antics could have brought on a nervous breakdown. At the same time, Fokine, with his tremendous insistence on perfection, hobbled about, giving orders to all and sundry in a mixture of languages--Russian, French, German, Swedish, and Danish--that no one, but no one, was able to understand. Even up to the time of his death, English was difficult for Mikhail Mikhailovitch, and he spoke it, at all times, with an unreproducible accent. His voice, unless excited, was softly guttural. In typically Russian fashion, he interchanged the letters “g” and “h.” Always there was an almost limitless range of facial expressions. On this tour, Fokine, being unable to dance, had more time on his hands to worry about everything else. His lighting rehearsals were long and chaotic, since provincial electricians were not conspicuous either for their ability, their interest, or their patience. During the lighting rehearsals, since he was immobilised by his injury, Fokine and Vera would sit side by side. He knew what he wanted; but, before he would finally approve anything, he would turn to her for her commendation; and there would pass between them that telepathic communication I often saw, and about which I have remarked before. Occasionally, if something amused them, they would laugh together; but, more often than not, their faces revealed no more than would a skilled poker-player’s. Fokine could manage to keep his temper on an even keel for a considerable time, if he put his mind to it. There was no affectation about Fokine, either artistically or personally. In appearance there was not a single one of those artificial eccentricities so often associated with the “artistic temperament.” To the man in the street he would have passed for a solidly successful business man. At work he was a taskmaster unrelenting, implacable, fanatical frequently to the point of downright cruelty. At rest, he was a gentleman of great charm and simplicity, with a sense of humor and a certain capacity for enjoyment. Unfortunately, his sense of humor had a way of deserting him at critical moments. This, coupled with a lack of tact, made him many enemies among those who were once his closest friends. These occasional flashes of geniality came only when things were going his way; but, if things did not go as he wanted, his rages could be and were devastating, all-consuming.