Chapter 1549 - Policies and Regulations

Next, the cadre began explaining the portions of civil law most relevant to the landlords.

Most important was the matter of bondservants. Nearly without exception, the wealthy families had brought large numbers of slaves with them. During the Ming Dynasty, the custom of keeping bondservants was widespread—a single juren might travel with more than twenty household slaves. With the frequent wars and famines of the late Ming era and masses of people displaced, the cost of keeping slaves had fallen extremely low.

The Yuan Laoyuan did not welcome private slaveholding. The vast majority of bondservants in Chinese feudal society were employed for domestic service—consuming social wealth while producing nothing. Moreover, large-scale slaveholding meant that landlords directly controlled significant populations, which the Yuan Laoyuan found utterly intolerable.

Thus, from a legal standpoint, the Yuan Laoyuan restricted slaveholding. Not only was slave trading entirely prohibited, but existing bondservants were subject to various limitations. Anyone maintaining bondservants under Yuan Laoyuan governance was required to pay a one-time "Bondservant Registration Fee" to retain their slaves, and thereafter an annual per-capita "Bondservant Usage Tax."

This immediately set off a buzz of murmuring below. What kind of law was this? To be taxed by the government for using slaves one had purchased with one's own money? And the tax was annual!

Wait—there was more. Under Yuan Laoyuan law, each household had a quota for the number of slaves it could keep. "Excess Bondservant Holdings" were subject to a progressive tax—the more slaves one kept, the higher the rate.

This policy was not only designed to reduce the number of bondservants but also served as a legal mechanism to compel large households to divide into separate legal units. To minimize taxes, the traditional multigenerational extended family would inevitably consider splitting into smaller households, thereby increasing the number of bondservant quotas available for tax avoidance purposes.

Seeing the indignant expressions around him, Zhuo Yifan quietly nodded to himself. Though he himself came from an official's household where servants were a matter of course, he did not approve of keeping large numbers of bondservants and exploiting them ruthlessly.

The Shorthairs' tactic—without explicitly prohibiting slaveholding—effectively raised its costs dramatically, thus indirectly limiting the practice. It could be called a benevolent policy, albeit one stained with the reek of commerce. His feelings were a mix of admiration and disdain.

The cadre went on to cover a great deal more about life in Lingao, speaking for roughly half a shichen. Though brief, his explanations were clear and thorough. When he finished, Zhuo Yifan observed him exchange a few words with Li Xiaopeng. The cadre produced a sheet of paper from his satchel and handed it over; Li Xiaopeng stamped it, then tore off half and returned it. Only then did the cadre depart.

Zhuo Yifan was puzzled. Offering a "courtesy gift" would have made sense, but what was this business of stamping and tearing paper?

The answer was that "policy lectures" were not free of charge. Delivering special legal education sessions for wealthy folk was outside the purview of the Civil Affairs Section. The Yuan Laoyuan's immigration policy was one of "open doors"—people coming from Ming lands were all welcome; no particular category received special treatment. Therefore, a fee was charged. The payment, of course, came from Qiong'an Inn. Li Xiaopeng's stamp turned the slip into a payment receipt.

What followed was Li Xiaopeng's portion of the presentation. His topic was the matter dearest to the landlords' hearts: purchasing houses and land.

Regarding houses: whether the family intended full immigration or was simply hedging their bets with a bolt-hole, they needed a permanent residence. To maintain the traditional lifestyle of silken ease—and to add to it the enviable "Australian-style" amenities—one also needed to acquire property and estates.

But Li Xiaopeng's words once again doused them with cold water. Land policy in Lingao was complex, quite unlike the Great Ming. Under Ming law, so long as the landowner agreed to sell, whatever the original purpose of the land, the buyer could generally do as he pleased: build a house, construct a workshop, raise pigs, grow vegetables, or even establish a cemetery. No one would interfere—certainly not the likes of city inspectors. This laissez-faire approach had lingered on until 1949. At that time, within the capital of Beijing itself, residential neighborhoods openly housed livestock pens and poultry coops. Pigs, sheep, cattle, chickens, ducks, and geese lived side by side with people. Animals were slaughtered openly in the streets. And the existence of cemeteries within city limits was too unremarkable to mention.

In Lingao, land was classified by designated purpose. Following the planning methods of another time and place, all land in the county was divided among residential, industrial, educational, agricultural, and other categories. One could not simply spy a scenic spot and buy it for a cemetery, or admire a beautiful view and build a private villa. Under the Yuan Laoyuan, private home construction was limited to residential land. Purchasing land for a private tomb was absolutely impossible.

Residential land in Lingao was, unfortunately, in particularly short supply. Expansion of industry and agriculture on the one hand, an influx of migrants on the other—these pressures combined to intensify the scarcity. To provide more housing and relieve the shortage, the Executive Committee had tightened approvals for private residential land acquisition, preserving enough space for apartment buildings and dormitories for sale or rent.

Of course, those determined to buy land could acquire residential plots from private owners. But natives of Lingao who held private residential land were exceedingly few—the county's original population was under forty thousand. Their plots were a minuscule fraction compared with the official and wasteland that the Yuan Laoyuan had seized.

The housing shortage had driven current prices for residential land to extreme heights. Meanwhile, the county's sole construction unit—Lingao General Construction Company—was fully booked. Anyone hoping to buy land and build on their own would find it essentially impossible in Lingao.

It was precisely because of this that the Li family's real estate business was booming. In the entire county, the only entity capable of meeting these landlords' requirements and guaranteeing delivery within a year was their property development company.

Housing was one matter—easily solved by the Li family's company, for a price. But "establishing an estate" was far more difficult than buying a house.

According to the landlords' thinking, the safest investment was to purchase farmland and collect rent. In ancient China, land had always been the most stable store of value, requiring neither expert knowledge nor extensive effort, yet providing reliably steady income. In times of war, one could hide the deed and flee; once peace returned, any government—no matter what dynasty—would honor the deed, and if tenants had died off, one simply recruited new ones.

Thus it was that not only rural landlords thought this way, but urban merchants and court officials too. After making their fortunes, they invariably bought land to collect rent. Even the maritime magnate Zheng family, lords of the sea trade, had purchased vast tracts and become Fujian's largest landowner.

The landlords arriving in Lingao naturally had the same idea. But at this orientation, they quickly discovered that this path was blocked.

The Yuan Laoyuan had not legally abolished tenancy. Old tenancy arrangements could continue under prior custom. Yet the Yuan Laoyuan had enacted numerous legal and economic measures to limit and suppress tenancy farming.

Following tax reform, the landlords' usual tricks—concealing land to evade taxes, shifting the burden onto tenants—no longer worked. Strict progressive agricultural taxation made the burden on rent-collecting landlords extremely heavy. Most unbearable of all was the Yuan Laoyuan's draining away of the labor pool. State-run and private intensive farms, the booming commercial and industrial enterprises—all drew away former tenants.

Migrants flowed into Lingao in great numbers, but distribution was entirely in Australian hands. Free migrants had too many employment options and were unwilling to become tenants for landlords.

The result was that tenancy landlords found it extremely difficult to retain tenants. The attrition rate was high. All the land in the world was useless without people to work it. Keeping tenants required offering better terms—better profit-sharing, better conditions. Land revenues plummeted. And now the Tiandihui had begun deliberately refusing to provide agricultural services to tenancy landlords. The benefits of improved farming techniques were denied to them entirely.

In the end, local landlords either sold their land and turned to commerce and industry, or engaged the Tiandihui—Lingao's largest "tenant"—to farm the land for them. Those who clung to the old tenancy system had dwindled to almost none, especially among small and medium landowners, who had been eliminated virtually without exception.

Purchasing farmland here was not especially difficult for the newly arrived landlords. Although developed land was scarce, "undeveloped agricultural wasteland" was plentiful. The difficulty lay in working the land; simply recruiting a few tenants would clearly not solve the problem.

Li Xiaopeng therefore proposed a comprehensive investment solution package.

For those who did not seek high returns and did not wish to think too hard: they could purchase farmland or "undeveloped agricultural wasteland," then contract the Tiandihui for full management or partial management.

"Excuse me, Master Li—what does 'full management' mean, and what does 'partial management' mean?" someone asked. When Li Xiaopeng reached this point, questions arose. The landlords were intensely focused on matters of property—their survival and development in Lingao hinged upon it.

Li Xiaopeng explained that under full management, the land was entirely entrusted to the Tiandihui. The landlord had to do nothing at all. When the time came, he simply collected his share per the contract. He need not invest a single coin—even taxes would be handled by the Tiandihui on his behalf. But in this case, the landlord's share was quite small.

Under full management, the Tiandihui first deducted its service fee. Then came the costs of reclaiming wasteland, improving soil and water, purchasing seeds and fertilizer, hiring laborers and agricultural machinery—every expense involved in farming the land had to be deducted from the harvest before any distribution. What remained for the landlord was roughly thirty percent of net income.

If the land was poor or outright wasteland, requiring substantial initial investment, the landlord might receive nothing at all for the first several years.

(End of Chapter)