Still Life

by Sarah Winman

There—the Biblioteca. A showcase for men. There—the Palazzo Vecchio, showcase for men. There—the Institute of the History of Science, a showcase for men. Over there—the Uffizi Gallery, a showcase for men. History has erased the unseen, said Evelyn. And we will never know the contribution women made to that unique time. Where were they then? said kid. Evelyn looked down at her young pupil. How old are you? she said. Nearly nine. But they say I have an old head on young shoulders. Do they? Well, they say I have the opposite. Kid laughed. You’re funny, she said. So where were the women? Well, that depended on class. Inside, mostly, if you were wealthy and married. Considerable time in the birthing room, hoping to produce male heirs. A constant succession of pregnancies from your midteens to your forties. You’d also be expected to run the household, of course. Organizing the servants. Sewing. Making bread. Making fires. That was a woman’s life, kid. Or the convent—the only available career for a woman. That was the choice. You’re not selling this life to me, Evelyn. No. I’m not, am I? Evelyn laughed. Didn’t women paint as well? They weren’t allowed to. Actively forbidden