The Last Giselle.

WHEN THEY ASKED ME, "HOW WAS YOUR TRIP TO HOUSTON?" I HAD TO SAY, "IT WAS A DISASTER. A NATIONAL DISASTER!" REALLY. WHEN I ACCEPTED HOUSTON BALLET'S INVITATION TO ATTEND THE FINAL PERFORMANCE of its season--with Houston/Royal Ballet principal Carlos Acosta returning for two performances to dance as Albrecht--it was a thoughtful decision. I had family there celebrating birthdays and anniversaries, it was only four days into hurricane season, and Tropical Storm Allison had already dropped ten inches of rain the day before and passed over. The Houston area is flat, and water drains quickly out to the Gulf, so I figured I was safe.

Houston's full-length production of Giselle marked the retirement of three principal ballerinas: Barbara Bears, who was to dance the title role opening weekend opposite Acosta; Dawn Scannell, who was to dance the second; and Kathryn Warakomsky, who was to dance the third. Fans and families had made reservations to celebrate the trio's long and distinguished careers.

The ballet opened Thursday night. Friday, I arrived to watch company class, only to find that Bears had been called to Florida on a family emergency the day before and principal Mireille Hassenboehler had stepped into the role. When word came that Bears would not be back for what was to be her final performance, a sympathetic groan rumbled through the company. Each dancer felt what it must be like for her.

After chatting for a short while with Stevenson, his now co-Artistic Director Trinidad Vives, and Carmen Mathe his assistant (who also danced Berthe), we toured the impressive Wortham Theater complex that also houses the Houston Grand Opera. Downstairs in the dressing rooms and costume shop, we passed rows of tiny grass-skirted dancers rehearsing for Cookie Joe's school recital in the adjoining, smaller Curran Theater. Then it was off to the Academy, where the training school for the professional company, administrative offices, and long-term costume storage reside. (Since the company had just returned from its London tour, most of the traveling cases with the Cleopatra costumes and others were still in the basement at the theater.)

Outside the school we met Carlos Acosta, who had missed company class in favor of a dental appointment for a root canal. "Have to take care of this smile," he said, flashing a grin that would melt the heart of even a Wili. Acosta's schedule read something like this: Thursday, open in Giselle; Friday, root canal; Saturday, perform in Giselle again and back to Boston to rejoin The Royal Ballet for Swan Lake. As it turned out, he had a little trouble getting out of town

Suddenly the rains came, and came, and came. Water fell off roofs like waterfalls and we waded ankle-deep to the house. For the next day and evening we watched the only television station left on the air, while it showed its own flooded lobby and the water creeping up the stairs to the anchors' desks. Then a cutaway found the reporters, without scripts, perched on high stools in the weather studio. "Pray for movement," said the weatherman, as he showed Doppler radar of Allison. Stalled by a low-pressure front, the storm draped itself over us like a careless bath towel, wicking up and dropping thirty-six inches of water from the Gulf. Roads were not impassable; they were invisible. The mayor called upon Houstonians to show the true character of their community in this 500-year flood and help their neighbors. They did, rescuing one another from stranded vehicles and second-story buildings and roofs. We watched as two intrepid neighbors unloaded a canoe and paddled through swift current to people stranded on the second floor of an apartment building. They brought back two. A young man waded ashore with a sizeable terrarium in his arms. "It's a Burmese python," he explained. "I really thought I'd have to leave him behind." Following him was a woman named Melissa with a large duffel bag and her dog, Sparky. "It's my flutes," she said, "Couldn't leave them. I'm a musician, and I have to play for the ballet tonight." The canoeists went back to hunt for more.

Melissa didn't play that night; everything was canceled. The overflowing Buffalo Bayou, which runs close behind the Wortham Theater, filled the downtown area, crept into the costume shops and dressing rooms that we had toured, poured into the extensive network of underground parking garages and the cavernous, linked, underground shopping mall (see Presstime News). Sadly, the Houston Ballet and the theater sustained significant damage, but the company was able to return to the theater and rearrange the schedule--so Dawn Scannell and Kathy Warakomsky did dance their last Giselles.

Not with me in the audience, though. I didn't get to see Giselle, and Barbara Bears never got to dance her last Giselle. Perhaps she retires a little unfulfilled, having never danced that great classic Romantic role for a ballerina--or perhaps not.

A classic is a classic because at least part of the drama resonates in our own lives. In the story, we see ourselves, or our friends, or what might have been. While most of us apparently did not die before our wedding days like a Will, nonetheless we all have some heartbreaks, some paths or roads not taken. One might say that if Giselle had paid attention to her mother's needs as Barbara Bears did, she might be alive today--but then we wouldn't have had an adolescent cautionary tale. Those of us who try to cross accepted racial, religious, or caste lines as Albrecht essayed, while not danced or stoned to death, are reminded that such ventures still involve pain or peril for ourselves and our loved ones. Some bitterness or even revenge festers in the hearts of people who see themselves as wronged--like Myrtha. And who thanks you for being bludgeoned with the truth by a Hilarion?

Scholars remind us that in the Romantic era people knew who they really were, but longed for an almost dreamlike purity and perfection that was both fantastic and unattainable. When we look at the photograph of Barbara Bears as Giselle on this month's cover--her luminous stillness, perfectly balanced, waiting, waiting--we sense that part of Giselle's allure is that she remains dreamlike, unattainable. When that stormy essence called Allison chose to drench us with reality instead of all that Romantic otherworldliness--for Bears, for Houston's audiences, and for me--Giselle was indeed out of reach.

K.C. Patrick is editor in chief.