And as the film crew climbed into their van, and got lost several times trying to get out of the vast grounds of Versailles, they were silent, and a little depressed.
They had lived through a wonderful day. The weather had been perfect, the sunlight blessed. The sign of the great stairs, the dreaming lake, and the rich fountains was still shimmering in their minds. They had been touched by the lovely space of l’Hameau, but there was still this sadness. It fell with the sense of the journeys still to be undertaken before Arcadia can be glimpsed. But it fell more with the subliminal realisation that with all the money in the world, all the power in the world, all the land, the fame, the will, the dream, the desire and the genius, Arcadia could not be created by human will or hand on earth. It can only be revealed, found, stumbled upon, discovered.
But their sadness came more from the fact that they had just passed into and emerged from one of the saddest things of all: a false Arcadia amidst splendour and glory.
It is better to endure the nakedness of despair than the emptiness of a fake Arcadia.
But the charm of the false Arcadia lingers, and deepens the ache for the real.
The crew’s sadness was that ache for the real, for the authentic enchantment.