Pride & Property: Do women with houses need men?
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single woman in possession of a good house must be in want of a husband.
Earlier this month, the Guardian interviewed Patricia Clarkson, 59, who’d just won the Golden Globe for her scary gothic mother turn in Sharp Ob
jects. Clarkson has gone out of her way to never marry, happily so for her, but it doesn’t land well with pretty much everyone else.
“I knew from a very young age that I would never marry,” she told her interviewer. “They don’t know where to put women who’ve defied convention. It’s a little better now, but still shocking. People judge you in a way that’s sexist and ageist. The most sexist that people have been to me is not in this business, it’s me being unmarried. It’s subliminal and subtle. It’s: ‘You live alone?’ ‘Ye-ees.’ And ‘You paid for this apartment?’ ‘No! My fairy godmother showed up in a f--ing pumpkin and paid for this apartment!’ ”
It’s not Clarkson who wants the husband, it’s everyone else who thinks that, as a single woman, she must be in want of one. It got me thinking about Jane Austen’s famous opening line to Pride
and Prejudice, written in 1797 about single men: “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.” The gorgeous irony of the sentence is that in the world of Pride
and Prejudice — written by a woman who remained productively single her whole life — no one really gives a damn what the single man wants. It’s the women who are in search of the man and his fortune, not the other way around, because what choice did they have in 18thcentury England?
Austen’s love story exposed a society that left many women with just two options: marry or live in penury. No wonder Mrs. Bennet, who made finding solid husband material for her five girls of limited means “the business of her life,” flipped her lid when Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy with their thrillingly deep pockets galloped into view.
But now the tables have turned, and not just for Ms. Clarkson in her swanky London digs but for many self-sufficient, self-respecting women in possession of their own paycheque and their own place to live. They don’t need a husband to keep them in good nick any more than Mr. Bingley or Mr. Darcy needed a wife. Indeed, the requirement of a husband (please substitute the partner label of your choice) for a happy life has never felt more flimsy.
Take me, for example. I am a single woman in possession of my own property. I’m pleased with my own version of comfort that doesn’t have to go through the filter of a male human with his own ideas about what that comfort should be. Sure, I have the occasional wobble of doubt, the odd waver of anxiety about my single status.
Sometimes when I see a group of women splitting the restaurant bill after their pasta specials I have an involuntary tic of dread. A too-quiet evening can feel a bit drab, too, especially if I take an ill-advised scroll through Tinder or Bumble to check out Larry, 68, who “likes to lounge” or Gary, 59, “Owner at Consulting,” pictured with a six-foot-tall plastic lobster. But am I going to go banging on the doors of widowers with an eggplant casserole? No I am not.
I began to wonder where other women stood on this issue and I decided to take my version of the Austen opener — “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single woman in possession of a good house, must be in want of a husband” — out for a stroll, putting my 2019 twist to women single and married, aged 25 to 75. Our independence finally lets us raise and answer this question for ourselves: now that women are in possession so often of their own fortunes, do they still want a man around? Or is the house enough?
Here’s what the women said. Woman No. 1, early 60s, single homeowner: Reflexively, I want a partner, or I worry I’m incomplete without one. That’s the patriarchal template I carry around in my head. But then, whenever a potential partner does hove into view, I panic and I realize I don’t actually want to give up my space. I just bought a tiny house, and I know exactly how I want everything. I don’t want anyone else telling me where to put things. So I guess if I add it all up … sorry, what’s the question again?
Me: Is a single woman in possession of her own house in want of a husband?
Woman No. 1: I think it all comes down to a room of one’s own, except in my case it’s the entire house. Maybe it’s more about mental space than physical space. It’s not like I’m not in want of a partner because I have money and property of my own. I just think it might have to be a very rich partner so he can have his own space, and stay out of mine. Woman No. 2, 70s, lately married, apartment dweller: Ownership is one way of ensuring the woman is firmly in charge of decor. But what fights are there when he wants to bring his furniture and “artwork” to the domicile? His drums, hockey equipment, large dog? Negotiate or suck it up. Mostly the latter and then plot to get your way in increments. Woman No. 3, 60s, long married, homeowner: I would not have it any other way with this particular husband. Me: You want the husband and the house?
Woman No. 3: Yes. Although I understand why women might not want that. It depends on your stage of life, doesn’t it? Thirty-five years ago, I was a divorced woman with a house, and I did want the husband. Now I am blessed with kids and friends and great neighbours and I can see how a woman might make a choice to have a roommate or a tenant, with no obligation to look after someone with their socks and smells and peccadilloes.
With a husband there is a giving over of internal psychic space. But there are also the small things that get shared — watching the news, something in the paper that made you laugh — things that incrementally make up the fabric of your day. What I had for breakfast is not what I’d phone a friend to talk about, but nice to share with my husband. Also, the physicality is very important. Knowing that someone is there. Small intimacies, physical contact. A hand or a shoulder in the night.
Woman No. 4, 27, newly married: I don’t own a house or have much of my own money, but if I suddenly make it big I won’t be leaving my hus- band on the side of the road. I’ve always thought about finding a partner in life regardless of where I’m at, and not as a financial flotation device. That’s what roommates are for! Woman No. 5, 25, single, apartment dweller: Why wouldn’t you want to share your home with a man? It’s human nature to want to be with someone. I believe in love. Unconditional love. Woman No. 6, 60s, divorced, homeowner: By way of response to my question, Woman No. 6 sent me a YoutTube video, titled “How to assemble a Keyhole Adjustable Bedframe.” In it, Demian, black T, jeans, and runners, begins: “So, one, make sure you have assembled all of the pieces necessary.”
(Such smart advice, I thought! Not too long ago I bought a new fridge, my first fresh appliance post-divorce, and when it arrived it didn’t fit in the allotted space. My brother Tim, a carpenter, came over and said, “Don’t you know the cardinal rule before you order anything? Measure once, measure twice, measure three times.” He had whipped out his massive carpenter’s measuring tape and was talking about bringing down walls, to my serious alarm. “No, Tim, I don’t know that rule,” I said. “How would I know that rule? Do you know the rule that you blow-dry your hair from back to front, with the brush held above you head?”) But Woman No. 6 had a workaround to male mastery. In case I didn’t get her drift with the video, which she had just used to assemble her new queen-sized bed frame, she followed up with a phone call. “A single woman in possession of a house is in want of good Wi-Fi with access to YouTube,” she said, and hung up.
Woman No. 7, 30, single, renter: Why is that even a question? Of course women who have a house don’t need a man. (Pauses.) I’m just coming off a bad date last night, so maybe this is the wrong day to talk about men and their virtues. But even though women are now in possession of their own property, the tables are not turned.
In Jane Austen’s time, for a man, a wife was about recruiting someone to look after their house — nothing in the man’s life would need to change except that they have added a woman to manage their house. But today, with a woman with her own property, adding a man is adding another person to take care of besides themselves. I am adding to my chores. Women my age, in their 30s, their lives are blooming — homes, careers, stability. They don’t want to add to the list of things they must compromise on. Even the best man, who does his share, still has to be given a list from the woman of what his share is.
Woman No. 8, divorced, 70s, homeowner: I am in love with my solitude and my freedom. I enjoy my own company. Me: What about men?
Woman No. 8: What about them? None of them can compete with that. I loved being married. I thought it was a tragedy when I was no longer married, but boy, did I ever get used to it. I’m totally done with men, except of course as dear friends, sonsin-law and grandsons. Woman No. 9, divorced, 60s, homeowner: I love men, I like their
“I’m just coming off a bad date last night, so maybe this is the wrong day to talk about men and their virtues.” WOMAN NO. 7 “I thought it was a tragedy when I was no longer married, but boy, did I ever get used to it.” WOMAN NO. 8
grumpiness, just the way they are, I just love them. If it came right down to it, if a man asked me to marry him and I loved him, I would move in with him. I would.
Love didn’t come up much in these conversations, except for the romantics in their 20s, with all of their unconditional love ahead of them, as it should be. And for Woman No. 9, the outrider. But all of these women, like me, have loved men well, and still do.
So what about love? Does it change the simple equation? Jane Austen’s sharp social commentary didn’t get in the way of her happy ending, after all. Property wasn’t everything, as the plot turned. Mr. Darcy — despite himself or unknown to himself, or perhaps both — really is in want of a wife. He didn’t need Elizabeth, but he badly wanted her. (“O, reason not the need!” said Lear. “Allow not nature more than nature needs, Man’s life’s as cheap as beast’s.”) Mr. Darcy marries the financially precarious Miss Elizabeth Bennet and my guess is they were well married. For one thing, they had a lot of space in that massively elaborate estate. A wing of one’s own, let alone a room.
It’s a conundrum, this whole idea of wanting a man when there is no need of one, especially once the children are grown. Love would tell us it is need enough. “I’ve had my dark nights,” Patricia Clarkson told her interviewer at the Guardian. “Am I envious sometimes of people who have beautiful, long marriages, a kindred spirit, a soulmate, beautiful children to buoy their life? But I have so much family in my life, many great friends, I have a huge life. I don’t need the bedrock.”
The interviewer doesn’t ask Clarkson about men themselves, about that ongoing hopeless annoyance with the other half of the species whose company you seek precisely because they are not what you are, the opposite gender.
I unexpectedly got the chance to study a random sample of men first hand, and to ponder this question of the house and the man versus the house sans man. One cold night I stopped by my friend Janice’s house before we headed to Koerner Hall for a modern classical musical concert. It was the same night her husband, David, hosts a weekly band practice with eight or six or 10 men, however many show up. It’s at their house because Janice has agreed to let her entire living room be taken over by band stuff, drums and mics and electronic things that take up an inordinate amount of space — the way a man takes up space, for example.
For years Janice has agreed to this arrangement, which is a puzzle to me, because — well, read Women Nos. 1, 2, 5, 6, 7 and 8. Also, Janice has a knockout talent for putting together a room that you want to live in for the rest of your life. If her living room were a man it would be one giant peccadillo right in the beating centre of her house. It ticks every box of irritation around sharing your home with a man.
As Janice and I sipped our pre-concert wine, the band members began to arrive through the back garden door, left open for them to enter every Wednesday night like enchanted guests from a fairy tale where the ending could go either way. The first two came with their own private slices of pizza, which they ate alone in opposing corners of the kitchen. “Hungry,” said one of them, the only word of greeting spoken between them. The third man, tall and energetic, had a lot to say, and opened his red wine for any who wanted some. Mr. New Guy, the most recent band member, with a mop of curly grey hair, was the last to arrive — with a tray of spanakopita, for sharing.
The spanakopita was frozen and needed heating up. This completely threw off the entire party of men. No one could read the Greek instructions until David read aloud, “Heat for 20 minutes at 350 degrees.” It seemed to imbue him with a godlike status among the men. “You read Greek?” said Mr. New Guy. “Yes,” said David as he continued to read the English translation on the back of the package. Now, women would have known right away how to find the cooking instructions in English, and would not have been in awe of David for finding them, or imagined he spoke Greek. Also, we would have all hugged and kissed and caught up with each new arrival and then sat in an inclusive chatty circle. In the extraordinarily unlikely event that we were confused by the spanakopita packaging (or that we would bring frozen spanakopita, period), we would have gotten up together to look for the instructions, sharing our reading glasses as we did so.
Throughout this spectacle of oblivious and cheerful maleness, smack in the centre of this kitchen tableau of sprawled men, Janice sat on a high stool and chatted and smiled. I was transfixed. By the bulk of these men, by Janice’s transparent enjoyment of them, by their comfortable lack of interest in small talk, by their disorganization that nevertheless led them toward an unspoken decision to begin to head to the living room to play their instruments. No one spoke to the solitary pizza eaters until they joined the group and spoke first themselves. It was spectacularly, alluringly not female. I had to be dragged away.
“Wow,” I said to Janice as we headed out to the concert, and it wasn’t because of the 44-below wind chill. “Is it like that every Wednesday night at your house?”
“Best kept secret in Toronto,” she said. It was too cold to talk much after that. But as we walked in companionable silence, like the men we had just left, I thought about the ways in which a house is not a husband. I love my house, the way it looks and feels like home, and the way it provides for me, a place to call my own, to be alone, and to welcome friends and family. It satisfies many of the needs a husband might fulfil and gives me a sense of completeness.
But would it be, not better, but more surprising and interesting, perhaps, with a size-14 clodhopper lumbering around, making messes and demanding attention? Not as the be-all and end-all of life anymore. Not the patriarch, which is what we have escaped from with our houses as security. More like an exciting artwork, or an exotic umbrella stand, or an always-stoked fireplace. What would Jane Austen say to that?
For all of her attention to love, Austen is little help on the matter. She rarely uses words to extol love, it’s all in the action. In Pride and Prejudice, she writes with more excitement about a book than a man: “How much sooner one tires of anything than a book! When I have a house of my own I shall be miserable if I have not an excellent library.”
And then it occurred to me: maybe men had the answer. They generally believe they do. So I put my question to a couple of them, one young and one older, on a March afternoon as the days were getting longer and the birds had begun to sing again. “Everybody might think it’s so,” I said, “but is a woman in possession of a good house really in want of a husband?”
“No woman over the age of 60 who has a house wants a husband,” said the 60-year-old.
“What about the ones who have a husband and a house already?”
“Especially the ones who already have a husband.” I turned to the 20-something. “And you?” “This question is irrelevant,” he said. “Who owns a house? No one I know.”
“Whenever a potential partner does hove into view, I panic and I realize I don’t actually want to give up my space.” WOMAN NO. 1