Why Not?

Introduction

Winner of the 1932 Nobel Prize for Literature in 1932, John Galsworthy wrote many famous pieces of literature throughout the early 20^th Century in Britain. One of his shorter and lesser known pieces is “Why Not?,” published in The Freewoman in 1912.

“Why Not?” is the story of an unnamed narrator who meets a man on the train selling “wife-insurance.” The man was a lawyer who has seen too many divorce cases in court go awry when men do not want to shame their wife but also feel like they need to claim damages. This “wife insurance” is basically an early form of the legal prenuptials we see today. Ultimately, “Why Not?” is a story that questions the sanctity of marriage—probably a shocking question in a society just leaving the strict Victorian era. The man speaks of his increasing success, saying, “I issued five hundred policies that first year. Since then business has been going up by leaps and bounds; four thousand policies last year, this year they’ll double that again” (446). This piece makes a short but clear statement about the state of marriage in England at that time: as a business it’s booming, but as a sincere relationship between two people it’s dying.

Transcription

Travelling one day from Ashford to Charing Cross^[1]A central London railway terminal in Westminster, England, I fell into conversation with a gentleman in a speckled straw hat. He asked me, in fact, my business in life. I informed him, and hesitating to be inferior in friendly curiosity, enquired of him in turn. He wavered a moment, then replied:

“A wife-insurance agent.”

“A life-insurance—?”

“A wife-insurance agent; and, handing me his card, he added: “Don’t you know my place?”

I answered that I had not that advantage.

“Really!” he said; “I am surprised. I thought everyone was beginning to know of me.”

“A wife-insurance agent, I think you said?”

“Certainly,” he answered. “Let me explain! You see, for many years I was a solicitor; and the notion came to me one day in the course of business. I can assure you it did not take me long to grasp its possibilities”

He smoked for a moment silently, then went on:

“When I first started I was a good deal bothered how to get myself known, for I was afraid of wounding the susceptibilities of the public. It was a delicate matter. I might have been misunderstood, and laid myself open to attack in one of those papers that—er—you know. It was my wife who solved that difficulty. ‘Don’t advertise,’ she said; ‘go quietly round amongst your married friends. The thing is good—it will spread itself.’”

He paused, took his cigar from his mouth, and smiled.

“My dear sir, she was right. I issued five hundred policies that first year. Since then business has been going up by leaps and bounds; four thousand policies last year, this year they’ll double that again.”

I interrupted him to say:

“But forgive me! I haven’t quite grasped as yet the nature of this insurance.”

He looked at me as who should ask: “Where can you have lived lately?” but replied courteously:

“I will come to that presently. The notion struck me one day in Court, watching a divorce case I had in hand. I was acting for the petitioner—nice fellow, friend of my own, best type of Englishman. The poor chap had said to me—as a matter of fact, you know, they all do: ‘I don’t like claimin’ damages. It may be my duty; but somehow I feel it’s not quite delicate.’ I told him that the Law expected it. ‘But of course,’ I said, ‘I quite understand your feelings. It is awkward. You’re not in any way bound to.’ ‘Oh! Well!’ he said, ‘I suppose it’ll have to be—no good standing out against custom.’

“Well, as I say, watching him that afternoon in the witness box, the inspiration came to me. Why should innocent people be put to all this difficulty about making up their minds whether or no to claim damages, and be left with that unpleasant feeling afterwards; for, say what you like, it is awkward for men with a sense of honour—or is it humour? I never know. Why, I remember one of my own clients— Society man, you’d probably recollect his case—I had him in my office four consecutive days changing his mind, and it was only when, quite by chance, he learned that his wife really was fond of the other fellow that he decided on putting in a claim. Well, as I say, watching my client in that other case, the idea came to me: Why not wife-insurance for misfortunes of this kind? Is there any distinction in Law between that and any other kind of accident? Here’s a definite injury, to a definite bit of property, definitely assessed on hard facts, and paid for in hard cash, and no more account taken of private feelings, or spirituality, as you might say, than when you lost a toe by a defect in your employer’s machine! I turned it over, and over, and over again; I could not see any distinction, and felt immediately what an immense thing it was that I had struck. Perfectly simple, too; I had only to get at the percentage of divorce to marriage. Well, being a bit of an actuary, I was very soon able to calculate my proper scale of premiums. These are payable, you know, on the same principle as life insurance, and work out very small on the whole And—but this I consider a stroke of genius—if there’s no divorce within twenty-five years of taking out the policy, the insured gets a substantial bonus. That’s where I rebut all possible charge of fostering immorality. For, you see, the Law permits you to benefit by your wife’s misconduct—so, of course, does my insurance; but, whereas the Law holds out no inducement to the husband not to make his claim, my insurance, through its bonus, does—it is, in fact, a premium on family life. No one has had a bonus yet, naturally, because I’ve only been established three years. But the principle is absolute. To put it crudely, instead of a simple benefit from the wife’s infidelity such as the Law gives you, you have a benefit from her infidelity, counteracted by a benefit from her fidelity. I’m anxious to make that clear, of course, on moral grounds. You ask me, perhaps, can I afford this bonus? Certainly—I allow for it on the figures; so that my system is not only morally sounder than the Law, but really first-rate business.”

He paused, but as I did not speak, went on again:

“I was very anxious to have got out a policy which took in also the risk of breach of promise; but at present I haven’t been able to fix that up. Up till marriage, of course, the whole thing is in flux, and there’s too much danger of collusion. Still, the system’s young yet, and I don’t despair, because I know very well that in breach of promise actions the same question of personal honour is involved, and people with any sense of humour feel a great delicacy about bringing them. However, as I say, the risk of mala fides is too great at present. You may contend, of course, that there’s risk of mala fides in my divorce insurance, but you see I’m really secured against that by the Court.” And here he laid one finger on his nose, and sunk his voice almost to a whisper: “For, no man can recover from me on his policy unless the Court has given him his decree, which is practically a certificate that the misconduct was secret, and the relations of wife and husband those of cat and dog. Unless the Court is satisfied of this, you see, it never grants relief; and without a decree granted, there’s no benefit to be had under my policies.” Then recovering his voice he went on, buoyantly. “I pride myself, in fact, on not departing either from the letter or the spirit of the Law. All that my system deals with is the matter of personal delicacy. Under my policies you can go into Court, without asking for damages, and come out, a free man without a stain on your honour, and minus that miserable feeling that people know you’ve benefited by your wife’s disgrace. And then you come to me, and I salve the wound. If you think it over, you’ll see that the thing is absolutely sound. You come out of Court with clean hands. Instead of feeling the whole world’s grinning at your having made money out of your wife’ s infidelity, not a soul knows but me. Secrecy, of course, is guaranteed.”

As he spoke, we ran into a station, and he arose.

“I get down here, sir,” he said, lifting his speckled hat: “Remember, I only follow out the principle of the Law— what’ s good enough for that is good enough for me. You have my card, in case at any time—!”