[lbo-talk] The Long Day

Yoshie Furuhashi furuhashi.1 at osu.edu
Fri May 20 13:06:19 PDT 2005



>[lbo-talk] FATAL WEDDING RYE
>Tom Walker timework at telus.net
>Tue May 17 18:38:05 PDT 2005
>
>Leigh Meyers wrote,
>
> >Ergot Poisoning. Ergot grows on rye.
> >It causes delirium tremens, convulsions and death.
>
>Interesting speculation considering the trippiness of the drawing.
>Rye is also a type of whiskey and Fatal Wedding the title of a turn
>of the century melodrama and a folk song. "Not a lizzard in a barrel
>of it" echoes the "not a fart in a carload" slogan of Horse Shit
>cigarettes.
>
>Note also the sandwichman in a top hat advertising 20 ct lunch in
>the lower right hand corner.
>
>The Sandwichman

There are a couple of scenes in Dorothy Richardson's "The Long Day: the Story of a New York Working Girl" (1905) where box-factory workers sing "Fatal Wedding":

<blockquote>The awakening thunder of the machinery burst gratefully on our ears. It meant that the last half of the weary day had begun. How my blistered hands ached now! How my swollen feet and ankles throbbed with pain! Every girl limped now as she crossed the floor with her towering burden, and the procession back and forth between machines and tables began all over again. Lifting and carrying and shoving; cornering and taping and lacing -- it seemed as though the afternoon would never wear to an end.

The whole great mill was now charged with an unaccustomed excitement -- an excitement which had in it something of solemnity. There was no sign of the usual mirth and hilarity which constitute the mill's sole attraction. There was no singing -- not even Angelina's "Fatal Wedding." No exchange of stories, no sallies. Each girl bent to her task with a fierce energy that was almost maddening in its intensity.

Blind and dizzy with fatigue, I peered down the long, dusty aisles of boxes toward the clock above Annie Kinzer's desk. It was only two. Every effort, human and mechanical, all over the great factory, was now strained almost to the breaking-point. How long can this agony last? How long can the roar and the rush and the throbbing pain continue until that nameless and unknown something snaps like an overstrained fiddle-string and brings relief? The remorseless clock informed us that there were two hours more of this torture before the signal to "clean up" -- a signal, however, which is not given until the last girl has finished her allotted task. At half-past two it appeared hopeless even to dream of getting out before the regular six o'clock.

The head foreman rushed through the aisles and bawled to us to "hustle for all we were worth," as customers were all demanding their goods.

"My God! ain't we hustling?" angrily shouted Rosie Sweeny, a pretty girl at the next table, who supplied most of the profanity for our end of the room. "God Almighty! how I hate Easter and Christmas-time! Oh, my legs is 'most breaking," and with that the overwrought girl burst into a passionate tirade against everybody, the foreman included, and all the while she never ceased to work.

There were not many girls in the factory like Rosie. Hers were the quickest fingers, the sharpest tongue, the prettiest face. She was scornful, impatient, and passionate -- qualities not highly developed in her companions, and which in her case foreboded ill if one believed Annie Kinzer's prophecy: "That Rosie Sweeny 'll go to the bad yet, you mark my words."

Three o'clock, a quarter after, half-past! The terrific tension had all but reached the breaking-point. Then there rose a trembling, palpitating sigh that seemed to come from a hundred throats, and blended in a universal expression of relief. In her clear, high treble Angelina began the everlasting "Fatal Wedding." That piece of false sentiment had now a new significance. It became a song of deliverance, and as the workers swelled the chorus, one by one, it meant that the end of the day's toil was in sight.

By four o'clock the last box was done. Machines became mute, wheels were stilled, and the long black belts sagged into limp folds. Every girl seized a broom or a scrub-pail, and hilarity reigned supreme while we swept and scrubbed for the next half-hour, Angelina and her chorus singing all the while endless stanzas of the "Fatal Wedding."

<http://www.geocities.com/athens/forum/7227/lngdyX07.htm></blockquote> -- Yoshie

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