This chapter takes as its starting point a comparison of the trajectories of two women from different generations and different ethnic and religious backgrounds. Both were to a considerable degree ‘self-made’ women, and one question raised by their narratives is how is marriage relevant to their success? The stories that these women tell are replete with ethical judgements and reflections on their own and their parents’ marriages as well as those about others. The apparently tangential significance of marriage in these stories is suggestive. Seemingly, a necessary part of a normative life course even in an unconventional scenario, marriage here takes forms that are at once accepted and also ‘transgressive’. Both women had married foreign husbands; in one case, this ended in divorce; in the other, what seemed a successful partnership endured. We see how marriage allows the expansion of convention but, paradoxically, also reinforces social norms. Indeed, at the boundaries of difference and what is acceptable, marriage has the capacity to be re-enfolded into what is normative through its conventionality. In this way, it holds a promise of transformation for individuals and families, and for wider communities and nations.

The conclusion draws together the themes of the chapters, returning to the analogy between marriage and anthropology as encounters with difference. Weaving together the stories of two protagonists encountered in the Introduction with the themes of ethical imagination and temporality, it draws out the broader significance of the everyday labour of moral imagination in kinship relations, and of marriage as a crucible of long-term social transformation. The discussion reflects on the importance of attending anthropologically to seemingly insignificant, everyday, domestic encounters and judgements, and to their cumulative effects.

Emerson describes a range of experiences that constitute friendship: titanic battles between beautiful enemies; conversational brilliance and expansion; a joyful solitude, as if someone has departed rather than arrived; a generalized benevolence toward people in the street to whom one does not speak; the warm sympathies and household joy one shares with a familiar friend; the disappointment of a friend outgrown. His account shows an intense focus on moral perfection – on our unattained but attainable self, alone and with others – but an equally intense awareness of what he calls in “Experience” “the plaint of tragedy” that sounds throughout our lives “in regard to persons, to friendship and love.” The chapter’s coda charts the opposition in “Love” between love as the experience of being “swept away” and a skeptical vision of marriage as a prison, from which sex, person, and partiality have vanished.

The arguments of the book are laid out, beginning with questions that probe the apparent obviousness of marriage as an institution. What does marriage do? How can we account for both its historical persistence and its cultural and historical variability as an institution? Rather than see it as an essentially conservative and normative institution, this book argues that marriage is, on the contrary, a crucible of transformation – of personal, familial and wider political relations. This is partly a result of the unique position it holds as an intimate relation but also a political, legal and religious one. The conventionality of marriage provides a deceptive cloak of conformity masking the elasticity of what may be acceptable to spouses, families and communities. The argument is grounded in an ethnography of marriage in contemporary Penang but draws on a range of comparative materials from anthropology, literature, films and other sources. The main themes of the book are introduced: marriage as continuity of patterns in earlier generations and, simultaneously, as divergence from these; an overview of the anthropology of marriage and its lacunae; marriage as ethical labour in and on time; and marriage as an everyday work of moral imagination. The chapters are outlined.

This chapter introduces an unexpected analogy between marriage and anthropology, both being encounters with difference that have transformative capacities – themes that are returned to throughout the book. Research on marriage in Penang recalls the author’s earlier fieldwork on kinship and domestic relations on the island of Langkawi in Malaysia in the 1980s. The chapter reflects on the author’s decades-long anthropological engagement with Malaysia and traces some of the major changes that have occurred there. It considers the very different contexts of research – rural and urban – over these years and the concomitants of a long-term anthropological commitment.

The concept of permissive law comes into play in several key passages of Kant’s writings in legal philosophy. Many scholars argue that Kant conceives of permissive laws as suspending moral demands, thus ‘permitting’ in the sense of tolerating morally wrong actions. In opposition to this view, this chapter submits that Kant takes permissive law to be a kind of moral licence. It lays the foundation of this interpretation through a reading of Kant’s discussion of permissive law in Perpetual Peace. As it argues, Kant follows Achenwall and Baumgarten in taking permissive law to be a species of prohibitive law, developing the concept of a law that specifies under which conditions certain actions are allowed. The function of the permissive law in Kant’s legal philosophy is neither to tolerate transgressions of prohibitions nor to regulate as such morally indifferent matters. As it shows, permissive laws are norms that specify under which conditions certain actions are allowed that would otherwise be forbidden. A permissive law licenses certain actions with respect to certain conditions. In the sphere of this licence, the actions are not merely tolerated, but genuinely permitted.

The chapter discusses the development of sacramental doctrine during a period of lively debate on the subject around the year 1200, with a focus on the relevance of the Fourth Lateran Council as a continuation of the eleventh-century ecclesiastical reform movement, and with stress on the unique relevance of Paris as the key centre of intellectual production.

Mœurs, the second major censorship topic, were cornerstones of how contemporaries shaped their world, especially as regimes changed. This chapter is organized thematically around the topics of love and relationships, titles (especially ‘citoyen’ or the lack thereof), brigands, justice, and false appearances, before concluding with new material on the fate of Le Mariage de Figaro – a play that touches on many of these themes. These examples, which include major comedies as well as works at the Porte Saint Martin, the Gaité, or the Ambigu-Comique, and secondary theatres in the provinces, demonstrate how the state and contemporaries used censorship around the depiction of mœurs to advance their specific view of the world. Interestingly, when it comes to mœurs, the limit of the tolerable where lateral censorship kicks in is often within the legally permissible, revealing a gap between what people wanted and the reality of a new political regime.

Dehlvi’s 1914 memoir raises the possibility that the women of the Meerut were not bazaar prostitutes but “women whose men had been imprisoned” – “respectable” women, wives, mothers, sisters, and daughters. Building on this clue, this chapter asks who were these women, why were they at the cantonment, and how did they regard the British? For answers, this chapter turns to “family pension” records from the 1850s. What emerges are soldiers’ family relationships and, from the British point of view, their scandalous nature. British “Pension Paymasters” came to argue that many bereaved women receiving pensions were not what they claimed to be, namely, war widows. Official distrust of such women grew dramatically in the mid-1850s, largely based on a narrowing definition in the official mind of what constituted legitimate marriage. The result was the denial of pensions to these women and, not infrequently, their criminal prosecution, especially in the region of Bihar and eastern Uttar Pradesh, whose marriages were deemed insufficiently legitimate. Pension fraud investigations also revealed, in the western reaches around Delhi, the Punjab, and Afghanistan, secondary marriages to younger women.

Panama’s authorities identified and combatted unmarried cohabitation or "amancebamiento" as a threat to the social order. This chapter discusses marriage’s lack of popularity on the isthmus, due to non-Catholic cultural traditions as well as the convenience and potential advantages of “living in sin.” In particular, it notes a proliferation of young widows described as “single” but free from paternal and conjugal authority. Alongside legal and fiscal measures to promote marriage, cases for marital separation or annulment provide insights into gendered obligations associated with the sacrament. Such cases’ success at court depended upon family support and alleged compliance with gender obligations. Other women turned to magic to shape their marital, affective, and economic relations. Inquisitorial trails, recorded in the summaries sent from Lima or Cartagena to Madrid, detail the experiences of Afro-descendants whose amatory and divinatory techniques garnered them prominent clienteles or merged with indigenous traditions in nocturnal revelries. Finally, Portugal’s separation from the crown of Castile disrupted the slave trade more than Portuguese residents in Panama.

The cultural level was low at the late ninth-century papal court, but an able pope could still have an impact north of the Alps.

Of the eleven kings under discussion in this volume, only two were married at their accession. Four of the others were still children, but those who had reached adulthood were expected to marry as soon as possible. There were practical reasons for this – the need for an heir to guarantee stability and the opportunity to create a diplomatic alliance that would strengthen a new regime. There were also ideological reasons. Medieval literature, chronicles and reports of gossip all demonstrate that a queen was an integral part of the medieval ideal of stable, mature kingship. This sense of a need for a feminine element in sovereignty was similarly apparent in the elevated position of the Virgin Mary who had been celebrated as queen of heaven from at least the sixth century. Just as medieval kings were Christ’s representatives, so the ideology of late medieval queenship drew inspiration from His idealised mother.

Wardship could affect surviving families in a myriad of ways; one family’s experience could be very different from another’s. For the lucky, the child and their estate would be returned at a reasonable price. For the unlucky, the child and their lands would be sold on to a third party who might exploit both without scruple. To try and capture some of the social and familial costs wardship imposed – inadequately captured from a purely economic perspective – the eighth chapter traces out the different stages of wardship and some of the surviving testimony and anecdotes from those unfortunate to enter wardship.

Medieval English law set the killing of a husband by his wife apart from most other homicides, because it was perceived as particularly serious and disruptive of the social order. Husband-killers were burned, not hanged, as a spectacular demonstration of condemnation and concern for this social problem. As this chapter shows, however, husband-killing also presented legal problems. There was a doctrinal puzzle in terms of the unclear extent to which this offence should be assimilated to treason, as opposed to homicide: the later distinction between ‘high treason’ against the king, crown or government, and ‘petty treason’ against a domestic superior did not come into being as neatly as sometimes assumed. There were also struggles on a procedural level, as attempts were made to fit husband-killing into common law modes of prosecution, prompting some creative strategies on the part of those seeking to secure a conviction.

This chapter discusses the extent to which these merchants defined themselves via their membership in their lineage, but then turns to the extensive evidence they provided about their marriages and their children, in effect their role as patriarchs of the nuclear households they founded. The men appear to have taken their familial responsibilities seriously and, even as they demonstrated their power over wives and children, they did not present themselves as harsh or unfeeling husbands and fathers.

This chapter reads scenes of judging and judgment in Samuel Richardson’s Sir Charles Grandison (1753–54) in the context of debates about the nature and scope of equity as well as the value and limits of the laws regulating familial relations. Through Sir Charles’s and Harriet’s interventions in disputes concerning marriage, custody, and inheritance, the novel affirms the value of equity as the basis for judgments in the Court of Chancery while showing the need to apply equitable principles to everyday life. The central principle underlying Richardson’s equitable jurisprudence is impartiality. Sir Charles’s and Harriet’s ability to assume other perspectives allows them to mediate conflicts in fair and flexible ways without issuing arbitrary or subjective decisions. Richardson’s commitment to equity shapes his experiments with epistolary form, prompting readers to examine conflicts from multiple points of view. Through his accounts of domestic disputes and his formal experiments, Richardson shows the need to extend the era’s equity jurisprudence to rectify injustices enshrined in and fostered by English common and statutory law.

For the final thirty years of their shared life, Michael Field kept an annual, co-authored diary that they entitled Works and Days. While this remarkable text provides a documentary perspective on the personalities and places of the literary and artistic fin de siècle, it also represents a significant literary achievement in its own right. The diary offers its readers an inside look at Michael Field’s interpersonal and coauthorial relationship across its many seasons, while also offering its authors a giant canvas, reminiscent of the span of a Victorian novel, for the exploration of complex questions about authorship, gender, sexuality, and desire.