Vienda- In Stainthorpe Hall
The 13th of Hamis - 51 Minutes past the 13th Hour
The 13th of Hamis - 51 Minutes past the 13th Hour
"C
ivic census.” He pushes the first of the volumes toward the girl. Large, heavy, well-thumbed. Fingers walk the edge of the pages, feeling for the right spot. Ink stains on the nails and along the side of his index fingers. Like strange tattoos. Might well be tattoos at this stage, the ink driven under the skin by long years of writing. He can never seem to fully remove it. Even the manicurist at the bathhouse, he as gone once or twice, could only shake her head and leave it faded, but still present. The mark of the profession. The indelible mark of his own class. Lets the girl see this, then opens the book to show her the classes of all the rest.
“Vienda, at the beginning of the last Symvoul,” Tables of districts, population counts by race and origin, income distributions, household size: averages and standard deviations, and set down in fine narrow print. 2.56 million people, reduced, turned into a few characters on a few pages. Unsettling. Necessary. Magnificent. “According to counts, and projections from counts, there were 642,871 individuals within the City of Vienda who were living at or below subsistence level. And, here,” he indicates several more lines of class demographic figures, detailing the working poor and even the better-off lowers classes, “you can see another 893,129 persons who would benefit from some form of practical and financial assistance. Any program of poor relief would have to attempt to handle a large, and sadly growing, population of the desperate and the needy. I doubt very much that a few do-gooders going about asking for cast-offs is going to provide real and lasting material relief for so large a population.”
Stained fingers turn more pages, dozens, hundreds. Past class divisions and income levels, past tallies of laborers and lesser clerks, shopkeepers, artisans, small industrialists, and finally, to a table of of commercial establishments. “Here, miss, you have hundreds of tailors, clothiers, general merchants, second-hand shops, and so on. If your goal is to relieve the clothing deficit, I would suggest you look into these places. Perhaps a public program of bulk purchases as a discount from a number of suppliers, then centralized distribution of said clothing to the needy? Raising funds for such an undertaking would be no small matter. Likely taxes, on property, on income, perhaps on luxury clothing. That seems most apposite.” Will he be happy with such as tax? No. The price of cravats and fine waistcoats will raise to absurd levels. The rent on his rooms will rise. He is not sure he can afford that. No, these things do not matter, should not matter. He is one man, policy cannot be dictated by his own prejudices. There is too much of that already in the law. No good can come of it. A great deal of ill has come from such things. It is not sound. Taxes are the price of civilization.
Odd. The girl has been annoying. Bothersome. Unexpected. A delay. He would wish her away. He cannot do so, finds he does not want to. He speaks, shows the numbers, provides methods. It is an old habit, a familiar habit. He stops thinking of her as ‘the girl’. No point. No use. Rather think of her as an inquiry agent from some other department, needing assistance turning idiocy into useful policy.
“These,” he indicated the other volumes on the desk, “Contain previous poor relief laws. Most of them have failed. They could never have succeeded. I cannot say they were ever designed to succeed. Rather, they were designed to assuage the guilt of wealth and station. And if that is your charge and reason, to purge yourself of guilt by useless but seemingly kind gestures, then I cannot, will not help you.”
“Vienda, at the beginning of the last Symvoul,” Tables of districts, population counts by race and origin, income distributions, household size: averages and standard deviations, and set down in fine narrow print. 2.56 million people, reduced, turned into a few characters on a few pages. Unsettling. Necessary. Magnificent. “According to counts, and projections from counts, there were 642,871 individuals within the City of Vienda who were living at or below subsistence level. And, here,” he indicates several more lines of class demographic figures, detailing the working poor and even the better-off lowers classes, “you can see another 893,129 persons who would benefit from some form of practical and financial assistance. Any program of poor relief would have to attempt to handle a large, and sadly growing, population of the desperate and the needy. I doubt very much that a few do-gooders going about asking for cast-offs is going to provide real and lasting material relief for so large a population.”
Stained fingers turn more pages, dozens, hundreds. Past class divisions and income levels, past tallies of laborers and lesser clerks, shopkeepers, artisans, small industrialists, and finally, to a table of of commercial establishments. “Here, miss, you have hundreds of tailors, clothiers, general merchants, second-hand shops, and so on. If your goal is to relieve the clothing deficit, I would suggest you look into these places. Perhaps a public program of bulk purchases as a discount from a number of suppliers, then centralized distribution of said clothing to the needy? Raising funds for such an undertaking would be no small matter. Likely taxes, on property, on income, perhaps on luxury clothing. That seems most apposite.” Will he be happy with such as tax? No. The price of cravats and fine waistcoats will raise to absurd levels. The rent on his rooms will rise. He is not sure he can afford that. No, these things do not matter, should not matter. He is one man, policy cannot be dictated by his own prejudices. There is too much of that already in the law. No good can come of it. A great deal of ill has come from such things. It is not sound. Taxes are the price of civilization.
Odd. The girl has been annoying. Bothersome. Unexpected. A delay. He would wish her away. He cannot do so, finds he does not want to. He speaks, shows the numbers, provides methods. It is an old habit, a familiar habit. He stops thinking of her as ‘the girl’. No point. No use. Rather think of her as an inquiry agent from some other department, needing assistance turning idiocy into useful policy.
“These,” he indicated the other volumes on the desk, “Contain previous poor relief laws. Most of them have failed. They could never have succeeded. I cannot say they were ever designed to succeed. Rather, they were designed to assuage the guilt of wealth and station. And if that is your charge and reason, to purge yourself of guilt by useless but seemingly kind gestures, then I cannot, will not help you.”
