A blind man in Matsuyama, a Christian of my acquaintance, put out one of his daughters to service as a komori. After two years of such life, poverty-stricken though the family was, he brought her home again, for the child of fourteen, so far from learning anything good, was learning many things bad on the street, and was being dwarfed in mind by the long hours when she was wholly without mental stimulus. The life of a komori will of course vary much with the nature of the family by which she is employed, but at best the service cannot fail to stunt the growth of both body and mind.
I heard not long since of a boy who became a komori. His father had died a drunkard, leaving the family ruined financially. The mother and children were accordingly distributed among the creditors to work off his debts. The little boy of eight went with his mother, and, so long as she lived—some three years—life was endurable for him, but after her death he was made increasingly miserable. Long hours by day and many interrupted nights, unkind words, and unutterable loneliness vexed his orphaned spirit, until he could endure it no longer, and planned to run away. The stern master however discovered him doing up his bundle, and, to prevent his escape, ordered his few possessions, even his clothing, to be taken away. In spite of this he slipped out one night in the darkness and hid in a barn in a neighboring village until morning, when he was taken pity on by some children who shared a kimono or two with him, and so he got away. With increasing years he led a wild, roving life; at eighteen he became a murderer and was imprisoned for life, escaping the death penalty on account of being a minor. In prison he first heard the Christian gospel of God's forgiving love, of peace and hope and joy. This "good news" he accepted, and learned to read, that he might read the New Testament, which he committed to memory. Upon the death of the Empress Dowager, in 1896, his penalty, with that of many other prisoners, was remitted, and now for fourteen years he has been living a life remarkably fruitful in Christian service.
But, to return to our subject, we note that not all komori are children. Superannuated old women who have neither strength nor brains for anything else also act in this capacity, their conditions of service and wages being the same as those of girls. I have tried to get some idea as to the number of komori in Japan, but have been able to find no statistics. One gentleman assures me that at least one family in five of the middle and upper classes employs a komori. As the number of families in Japan, exclusive of farmers, is 3,981,940 (1912), this would make about 796,000 komori; but many well-to-do farming families also employ komori, so the total number in Japan would be not far from 1,000,000. A lady however assures me that this estimate is altogether too high, and thinks that not more than one family in twenty has the means to employ a komori. If this is true, then the number is in the vicinity of 250,000. In either case, the system and its nature are clear, and the numbers of children sent out to service at a tender age is not inconsiderable. The attention of educators and parents is being directed to the dangers to infants of this komori system, to say nothing of the harm it does to the girls themselves.
CHAPTER VII
HOUSEHOLD DOMESTICS
BY the time a girl is fifteen or sixteen she is regarded as sufficiently large, strong, and mature to enter on more responsible work. Among the several fields open to her is that of gejo, or domestic service, of which we may distinguish two varieties: those who serve in private families and those who become maids in hotels and tea-houses. A komori may gradually work into the position of a domestic; indeed, in the majority of homes a komori not only tends the baby but aids the mother in her household work. It is only in the homes of the well-to-do that both gejo and komori are to be found. The work of a gejo consists in taking the brunt of the cooking, housecleaning, and washing, serving from daybreak, that is, from five or six in the morning, till ten or eleven at night. Her status is somewhat better than that of the komori. Her hours of service however are long and taxing. Her time for rest is after the family has retired for the night and before they rise in the morning. Frequently her private room is the front hall, or entrance room; she accordingly is the last person to retire and the first to rise. It is to be noted however that in the houses of the middle classes in the large cities there is usually now a small room for the servant-girl. The gejo draws the water from the well, washes the rice, lights the fires, cooks and lives in the dingy and usually smoky kitchen, washes the clothes, aids in the sewing, and has no relaxation but an occasional festival. Her lot is truly pitiful.
Besides her living (eating what is left from the family meal), she usually receives some two to three yen per month. Recently however some have been receiving even as much as five yen. The drudgery and monotony of the life are usually such that the opportunity to become a factory hand is quickly taken, especially as the cash earnings are relatively large. I am told by Japanese ladies that the problem of securing domestics in the cities or in the vicinities of factories is becoming serious.
Of course the average domestic has no opportunity nor desire for mental improvement. Having enjoyed no education to speak of, she can read neither papers nor books, nor may she attend meetings fitted to cultivate the mind or promote her higher life. Thus she is controlled by the culture and mental and moral traditions of the home in which she was reared.
Household domestics are recruited from farming and industrial families. They earn their living for from four to six years, until their parents or guardians find them husbands; for in Japan the girl has practically nothing to say as to whom she marries. Marriage is based, not on mutual acquaintance, much less on mutual attraction, but wholly on the judgment of parents or go-betweens, and is from first to last—if it is proper—a utilitarian affair.