I can see them now: one with her arms buried deep in boxes pulling out piles of papers, journals and the like, with here and there a soft or throaty laugh at something she's unearthed; the other his nose inches from a book, brow furrowed, and his pen, in his writing hand, poised over a sheet of paper. (I would venture to say he might on occasion nibble at his pen, but somehow he doesn't seem the type.)
But what are each working on you inquire? One is on the trail of history, a trail which leads somewhere, then nowhere, then somewhere else with its beginnings and dead ends and no ends; the other is on the trail of something obscure, nobody (not even the other scholar in the house) knows what, it could be literary or philosophical, or neither of those. Some opine it's concerned with French, the French and the translation of, for spies say telephone calls are made (at odd hours of the day) where phrases in colloquial French are queried, but what these spies don't seem to know is whether the answers given are helpful, or how the quest (if this is the quest) is coming on. What is evident is that it's secret, and can therefore only be conducted from the top of the building.
What can be said with some certainty, I think, is that one dapples in dates and documents, and the other with texts of a scholarly and classic bent. (Each would, I think, take offence at the word 'dapple'.)
I should say I suppose something on their backgrounds, but what I know is all a little disjointed and hazy. It would be safer to say one seems to have led a rather bohemian lifestyle and the other was for some years a teacher of English. Neither could be said to be conventional or conservative, and both have interests that could seem surprising. What however does not come as a surprise is that both, in and outside their chosen fields, are extremely knowledgeable. (Some might say Enlightened.)
This arrangement, then, between them, was amicable (they were married, Reader). Both had their own space in which to work, though both would have liked more. Each, separately and together, had given some thought to how this could be achieved, but the garage already held the overspill of books and music and films, and there was no garden as such to extend into or construct something new in. Inside, there were no extraneous walls to knock down and the cupboards, the few there were, were full to overflowing. Every house, too, whether its inhabitants are donnish or not, needs its kitchen and designated space for other utilities, just as a cat, feral or domestic, needs its perching and hiding spots. (Their black cat, it's worth noting, was very particular with these regards, though of laps too he was fond at most inconvenient moments.)
So the problem, it seemed, could not be solved or shared to any satisfaction. And anyhow, give a scholar a space and he or she will find a way to work in it or if large enough fill it. Each has their own method of working. And problem solving of this nature consumes too much time and too much thought, leaving less for critical (of the sleuthing kind) or philosophical thinking. A resident cat, black, tabby, tortoiseshell or marmalade, in all instances can help to lighten this load as well as relieve the boredom of a scholarly life. (Fact: many a scholar has had a cat, for when a cat invites you to play, you play; or capture what they've brought in to play with.)
Life is not all books and papers, as any scholar, including these two, will tell you, for life has this annoying habit of interrupting study, serious or contemplative. One might be hunched over writing rapidly or the other looking through a magnifier at something absorbing when the cat wants feeding or the bed needs changing or the dishwasher emptying etc. The golden rule to mitigate such household disturbances is to: only yell at set times.
Picture credit: A Scholar Seated at a Table with Books, 1634, Rembrandt (source: WikiArt).
Written September 2020.
