|
|
 |
|
|
|
register |
bbs |
search |
rss |
faq |
about
|
|
|
meet up |
add to del.icio.us |
digg it
|
|
|
|
Animal Farm by George Orwell
Animal Farm
A Fairy Story by George Orwell
Chapter I:
Mr. Jones, of the Manor Farm, had locked the hen-houses for the night, but
was too drunk to remember to shut the popholes. With the ring of light from
his lantern dancing from side to side, he lurched across the yard, kicked off
his boots at the back door, drew himself a last glass of beer from the barrel
in the scullery, and made his way up to bed, where Mr. Jones was already
snoring.
As soon as the light in the bedroom went out there was a stirring and a
fluttering all through the farm buildings. Word had gone round during the
day that old Major, the prize Middle White boar, had had a strange dream on
the previous night and wished to communicate it to the other animals. It had
been agreed that they should all meet in the big barn as soon as Mr. Jones
was safely out of the way. Old Major (so he was always called, though the
name under which he had been exhibited was Willingdon Beauty) was so highly
regarded on the farm that everyone was quite ready to lose an hour's sleep in
order to hear what he had to say.
At one end of the big barn, on a sort of raised platform, Major was already
ensconced on his bed of straw, under a lantern which hung from a beam. He
was twelve years old and had lately grown rather stout, but he was still a
majestic-looking pig, with a wise and benevolent appearance in spite of the
fact that his tushes had never been cut. Before long the other animals began
to arrive and make themselves comfortable after their different fashions.
First came the three dogs, Bluebell, Jessie, and Pincher, and then the pigs,
who settled down in the straw immediately in front of the platform. The hens
perched themselves on the window-sills, the pigeons fluttered up to the
rafters, the sheep and cows lay down behind the pigs and began to chew the
cud. The two cart-horses, Boxer and Clover, came in together, walking very
slowly and setting down their vast hairy hoofs with great care lest there
should be some small animal concealed in the straw. Clover was a stout
motherly mare approaching middle life, who had never quite got her figure
back after her fourth foal. Boxer was an enormous beast, nearly eighteen
hands high, and as strong as any two ordinary horses put together. A white
stripe down his nose gave him a somewhat stupid appearance, and in fact he
was not of first-rate intelligence, but he was universally respected for his
steadiness of character and tremendous powers of work. After the horses came
Muriel, the white goat, and Benjamin, the donkey. Benjamin was the oldest
animal on the farm, and the worst tempered. He seldom talked, and when he
did, it was usually to make some cynical remark--for instance, he would say
that God had given him a tail to keep the flies off, but that he would sooner
have had no tail and no flies. Alone among the animals on the farm he never
laughed. If asked why, he would say that he saw nothing to laugh at.
Nevertheless, without openly admitting it, he was devoted to Boxer; the two
of them usually spent their Sundays together in the small paddock beyond the
orchard, grazing side by side and never speaking.
The two horses had just lain down when a brood of ducklings, which had lost
their mother, filed into the barn, cheeping feebly and wandering from side to
side to find some place where they would not be trodden on. Clover made a
sort of wall round them with her great foreleg, and the ducklings nestled
down inside it and promptly fell asleep. At the last moment Mollie, the
foolish, pretty white mare who drew Mr. Jones's trap, came mincing daintily
in, chewing at a lump of sugar. She took a place near the front and began
flirting her white mane, hoping to draw attention to the red ribbons it was
plaited with. Last of all came the cat, who looked round, as usual, for the
warmest place, and finally squeezed herself in between Boxer and Clover;
there she purred contentedly throughout Major's speech without listening to
a word of what he was saying.
All the animals were not present except Moses, the tame raven, who slept on
a perch behind the back door. When Major saw that they had all made
themselves comfortable and were waiting attentively, he cleared his throat
and began:
"Comrades, you have heard already about the strange dream that I had last
night. But I will come to the dream later. I have something else to say
first. I do not think, comrades, that I shall be with you for many months
longer, and before I die, I feel it my duty to pass on to you such wisdom as
I have acquired. I have had a long life, I have had much time for thought as
I lay alone in my stall, and I think I may say that I understand the nature
of life on this earth as well as any animal now living. It is about this
that I wish to speak to you.
"Now, comrades, what is the nature of this life of ours? Let us face it:
our lives are miserable, laborious, and short. We are born, we are given
just so much food as will keep the breath in our bodies, and those of us who
are capable of it are forced to work to the last atom of our strength; and
the very instant that our usefulness has come to an end we are slaughtered
with hideous cruelty. No animal in England knows the meaning of happiness or
leisure after he is a year old. No animal in England is free. The life of
an animal is misery and slavery: that is the plain truth.
"But is this simply part of the order of nature? Is it because this land of
ours is so poor that it cannot afford a decent life to those who dwell upon
it? No, comrades, a thousand times no! The soil of England is fertile, its
climate is good, it is capable of affording food in abundance to an
enormously greater number of animals than now inhabit it. this single farm
of ours would support a dozen horses, twenty cows, hundreds of sheep--and all
of them living in a comfort and dignity that are now almost beyond our
imagining. Why then do we continue in this miserable condition? Because
nearly the whole of the produce of our labour is stolen from us by human
beings. There, comrades, is the answer to all our problems. It is summed up
in a single word--Man. Man is the only real enemy we have. Remove Man from
the scene, and the root cause of hunger and overwork is abolished for ever.
"Man is the only creature that consumes without producing. He does not give
milk, he does not lay eggs, he is too weak to pull the plough, he cannot run
fast enough to catch rabbits. Yet he is lord of all the animals. He sets
them to work, he gives back to them the bare minimum that will prevent them
from starving, and the rest he keeps for himself. Our labour tills the soil,
our dung fertilises it, and yet there is not one of us that owns more than
his bare skin. You cows that I see before me, how many thousands of gallons
of milk have you given during this last year? And what has happened to that
milk which should have been breeding up sturdy calves? Every drop of it has
gone down the throats of our enemies. And you hens, how many eggs have you
laid in this last year, and how many of those eggs ever hatched into
chickens? The rest have all gone to market to bring in money for Jones and
his men. And you, Clover, where are those four foals you bore, who should
have been the support and pleasure of your old age? Each was sold at a year
old--you will never see one of them again. In return for your confinements
and all your labour in the fields, what have you ever had except your bare
rations and a stall?
"And even the miserable lives we lead are not allowed to reach their natural
span. For myself I do not grumble, for I am one of the lucky ones. I am
twelve years old and have had over four hundred children. Such is the
natural life of a pig. But no animal escapes the cruel knife in the end.
You young porkers who are sitting in front of me, every one of you will
scream your lives out at the block within a year. To that horror we all must
come--cows, pigs, hens, sheep, everyone. Even the horses and the dogs have
no better fate. You, Boxer, the very day that those great muscles of yours
lose their power, Jones will sell you to the knacker, who will cut your
throat and boil you down for the foxhounds. As for the dogs, when they grow
old and toothless, Jones ties a brick round their necks and drowns them in
the nearest pond.
"Is it not crystal clear, then, comrades, that all the evils of this life of
ours spring from the tyranny of human beings? Only get rid of Man, and the
produce of our labour would be our own. Almost overnight we could become
rich and free. What then must we do? Why, work night and day, body and
soul, for the overthrow of the human race! That is my message to you,
comrades: Rebellion! I do not know when that Rebellion will come, it might
be in a week or in a hundred years, but I know, as surely as I see this straw
beneath my feet, that sooner or later justice will be done. Fix your eyes on
that, comrades, throughout the short remainder of your lives! And above all,
pass on this message of mine to those who come after you, so that future
generations shall carry on the struggle until it is victorious.
"And remember, comrades, your resolution must never falter. No argument must
lead you astray. Never listen when they tell you that Man and the animals
have a common interest, that the prosperity of the one is the prosperity of
the others. It is all lies. Man serves the interests of no creature except
himself. And among us animals let there be perfect unity, perfect
comradeship in the struggle. All men are enemies. All animals are
comrades."
At this moment there was a tremendous uproar. While Major was speaking four
large rats had crept out of their holes and were sitting on their
hindquarters, listening to him. The dogs had suddenly caught sight of them,
and it was only by a swift dash for their holes that the rats saved their
lives. Major raised his trotter for silence.
"Comrades," he said, "here is a point that must be settled. The wild
creatures, such as rats and rabbits--are they our friends or our enemies?
Let us put it to the vote. I propose this question to the meeting: Are
rats comrades?"
The vote was taken at once, and it was agreed by an overwhelming majority
that rats were comrades. there were only four dissentients, the three dogs
and the cat, who was afterwards discovered to have voted on both sides.
Major continued:
"I have little more to say. I merely repeat, remember always your duty of
enmity towards Man and all his ways. Whatever goes upon two legs is an
enemy. Whatever goes upon four legs, or has wings, is a friend. And
remember also that in fighting against Man, we must not come to resemble him.
Even when you have conquered him, do not adopt his vices. No animal must
ever live in a house, or sleep in a bed, or wear clothes, or drink alcohol,
or smoke tobacco, or touch money, or engage in trade. All the habits of Man
are evil. And, above all, no animal must ever tyrannise over his own kind.
Weak or strong, clever or simple, we are all brothers. No animal must ever
kill any other animal. All animals are equal.
"And now, comrades, I will tell you about my dream of last night. I cannot
describe that dream to you. It was a dream of the earth as it will be when
Man has vanished. But it reminded me of something that I had long forgotten.
Many years ago, when I was a little pig, my mother and the other sows used to
sing an old song of which they knew only the tune and the first three words.
I had known that tune in my infancy, but it had long since passed out of my
mind. Last night, however, it came back to me in my dream. And what is
more, the words of the song also came back--words, I am certain, which were
sung by the animals of long ago and have been lost to memory for generations.
I will sing you that song now, comrades. I am old and my voice is hoarse,
but when I have taught you the tune, you can sing it better for yourselves.
It is called 'Beasts of England'."
Old Major cleared his throat and began to sing. As he had said, his voice
was hoarse, but he sang well enough, and it was a stirring tune, something
between 'Clementine' and 'La Cucaracha'. The words ran:
Beasts of England, beasts of Ireland,
Beasts of every land and clime,
Hearken to my joyful tidings
Of the golden future time.
Soon or late the day is coming,
Tyrant Man shall be o'erthrown,
And the fruitful fields of England
Shall be trod by beasts alone.
Rings shall vanish from our noses,
And the harness from our back,
Bit and spur shall rust forever,
Cruel whips no more shall crack.
Riches more than mind can picture,
Wheat and barley, oats and hay,
Clover, beans, and mangel-wurzels
Shall be ours upon that day.
Bright will shine the fields of England,
Purer shall its waters be,
Sweeter yet shall blow its breezes
On the day that sets us free.
For that day we all must labour,
Though we die before it break;
Cows and horses, geese and turkeys,
All must toil for freedom's sake.
Beasts of England, beasts of Ireland,
Beasts of every land and clime,
Hearken well and spread my tidings
Of the golden future time.
The singing of this song threw the animals into the wildest excitement.
Almost before Major had reached the end, they had begun singing it for
themselves. Even the stupidest of them had already picked up the tune and a
few of the words, and as for the clever ones, such as the pigs and dogs, they
had the entire song by heart within a few minutes. And then, after a few
preliminary tries, the whole farm burst out into 'Beasts of England' in
tremendous unison. The cows lowed it, the dogs whined it, the sheep bleated
it, the horses whinnied it, the ducks quacked it. They were so delighted
with the song that they sang it right through five times in succession, and
might have continued singing it all night if they had not been interrupted.
Unfortunately, the uproar awoke Mr. Jones, who sprang out of bed, making sure
that there was a fox in the yard. He seized the gun which always stood in a
corner of his bedroom, and let fly a charge of number 6 shot into the
darkness. The pellets buried themselves in the wall of the barn and the
meeting broke up hurriedly. Everyone fled to his own sleeping place. The
birds jumped on to their perches, the animals settled down in the straw, and
the whole farm was asleep in a moment.
Chapter II:
Three nights later old Major died peacefully ion his sleep. His body was
buried at the foot of the orchard.
This was early in March. During the next three months there was much secret
activity. Major's speech had given to the more intelligent animals on the
farm a completely new outlook on life. They did not know when the Rebellion
predicted by Major would take place, they had no reason for thinking that it
would be within their own lifetime, but they saw clearly that it was their
duty to prepare for it. The work of teaching and organising the others fell
naturally upon the pigs, who were generally recognised as being the cleverest
of the animals. Pre-eminent among the pigs were two young boars named
Snowball and Napoleon, whom Mr. Jones was breeding up for sale. Napoleon was
a large, rather fierce-looking Berkshire boar, the only Berkshire on the
farm, not much of a talker, but with a reputation for getting his own way.
Snowball was a more vivacious pig than Napoleon, quicker in speech and more
inventive, but was not considered to have the same depth of character. All
the other male pigs on the farm were porkers. The best known among them was
a small fat pig named Squealer, with very round cheeks, twinkling eyes,
nimble movements, and a shrill voice. He was a brilliant talker, and when he
was arguing some difficult point he had a way of skipping from side to side
and whisking his tail which was somehow very persuasive. The others said of
Squealer that he could turn black into white.
These three had elaborated old Major's teachings into a complete system of
thought, to which they gave the name of Animalism. Several nights a week,
after Mr. Jones was asleep, they held secret meetings in the barn and
expounded the principles of Animalism to the others. At the beginning they
met with much stupidity and apathy. Some of the animals talked of the duty
of loyalty to Mr. Jones, whom they referred to as "Master," or made
elementary remarks such as "Mr. Jones feeds us. If he were gone, we should
starve to death." Others asked such questions as "Why should we care what
happens after we are dead?" or "If this Rebellion is to happen anyway, what
difference does it make whether we work for it or not?", and the pigs had
great difficulty in making them see that this was contrary to the spirit of
Animalism. The stupidest questions of all were asked by Mollie, the white
mare. The very first question she asked Snowball was: "Will there still be
sugar after the Rebellion?"
"No," said Snowball firmly. "We have no means of making sugar on this farm
Besides, you do not need sugar. You will have all the oats and hay you
want."
"And shall I still be allowed to wear ribbons in my mane?" asked Mollie.
"Comrade," said Snowball, "those ribbons that you are so devoted to are the
badge of slavery. Can you not understand that liberty is worth more than
ribbons?"
Mollie agreed, but she did not sound very convinced.
The pigs had an even harder struggle to counteract the lies put about by
Moses, the tame raven. Moses, who was Mr. Jones's especial pet, was a spy
and a tale-bearer, but he was also a clever talker. He claimed to know of
the existence of a mysterious country called Sugarcandy Mountain, to which
all animals went when they died. It was situated somewhere up in the sky, a
little distance beyond the clouds, Moses said. In Sugarcandy Mountain it was
Sunday seven days a week, clover was in season all the year round, and lump
sugar and linseed cake grew on the hedges. The animals hated Moses because
he told tales and did no work, but some of them believed in Sugarcandy
Mountain, and the pigs had to argue very hard to persuade them that there was
no such place.
Their most faithful disciples were the two carthorses, Boxer and Clover.
These two had great difficulty in thinking anything out for themselves, but
having once accepted the pigs as their teachers, they absorbed everything
that they were told, and passed it on to the other animals by simple
arguments. They were unfailing in their attendance at the secret meetings in
the barn, and led the singing of 'Beasts of England', with which the meetings
always ended.
Now, as it turned out, the Rebellion was achieved much earlier and more
easily than anyone had expected. In past years Mr. Jones, although a hard
master, had been a capable farmer, but of late he had fallen on evil days.
He had become much disheartened after losing money in a lawsuit, and had
taken to drinking more than was good for him. For whole days at a time he
would lounge in his Windsor chair in the kitchen, reading the newspapers,
drinking, and occasionally feeding Moses on crusts of bread soaked in beer.
His men were idle and dishonest, the fields were full of weeds, the buildings
wanted roofing, the hedges were neglected, and the animals were underfed.
June came and the hay was almost ready for cutting. On Midsummer's Eve,
which was a Saturday, Mr. Jones went into Willingdon and got so drunk at the
Red Lion that he did not come back till midday on Sunday. The men had milked
the cows in the early morning and then had gone out rabbiting, without
bothering to feed the animals. When Mr. Jones got back he immediately went
to sleep on the drawing-room sofa with 'News of the World' over his face, so
that when evening came, the animals were still unfed. At last they could
stand it no longer. One of the cows broke in the door of the store-shed with
her horn and all the animals began to help themselves from the bins. It was
just then that Mr. Jones woke up. The next moment he and his four men were
in the store-shed with whips in their hands, lashing out in all directions.
This was more than the hungry animals could bear. With one accord, though
nothing of the kind had been planned beforehand, they flung themselves upon
their tormentors. Jones and his men suddenly found themselves being butted
and kicked from all sides. The situation was quite out of their control.
They had never seen animals behave like this before, and this sudden uprising
of creatures whom they were used to thrashing and maltreating just as they
chose, frightened them almost out of their wits. After only a moment or two
they gave up trying to defend themselves and took to their heels. A minute
later all five of them were in full flight down the cart-track that led to
the main road, with the animals pursuing them in triumph.
Mrs. Jones looked out of the bedroom window, saw what was happening,
hurriedly flung a few possessions into a carped bag, and slipped out of the
farm by another way. Moses sprang off his perch and flapped after her,
croaking loudly. Meanwhile the animals had chased Jones and his men out on
to the road and slammed the five-barred gate behind them. And so, almost
before they knew what was happening, the Rebellion had been successfully
carried through: Jones was expelled, and the Manor Farm was theirs.
For the first few minutes the animals could hardly believe in their good
fortune. Their first act was to gallop in a body right round the boundaries
of the farm, as though to make quite sure that no human being was hiding
anywhere upon it; then they raced back to the farm buildings to wipe out the
last traces of Jones's hated reign. The harness-room at the end of the
stables was broken open; the bits, the nose-rings, the dog-chains, the cruel
knives with which Mr. Jones had been used to castrate the pigs and lambs,
were all flung down the well. The reins, the halters, the blinkers, the
degrading nosebags, were thrown on to the rubbish fire which was burning in
the yard. So were the whips. All the animals capered with joy when they saw
the whips going up in flames. Snowball also threw on to the fire the ribbons
with which the horses' manes and tails had usually been decorated on market
days.
"Ribbons," he said, "should be considered as clothes, which are the mark of
a human being. All animals should go naked."
When Boxer heard this he fetched the small straw hat which he wore in summer
to keep the flies out of his ears, and flung it on to the fire with the rest.
In a very little while the animals had destroyed everything that reminded
them of Mr. Jones. Napoleon then led them back to the store-shed and served
out a double ration of corn to everybody, with two biscuits for each dog.
Then they sang 'Beasts of England' from end to end seven times running, and
after that they settled down for the night and slept as they had never slept
before.
But they woke at dawn as usual, and suddenly remembering the glorious thing
that had happened, they all raced out into the pasture together. A little
way down the pasture there was a knoll that commanded a view of most of the
farm. The animals rushed to the top of it and gazed round them in the clear
morning light. Yes, it was theirs--everything that they could see was
theirs! In the ecstacy of that thought they gambolled round and round, they
hurled themselves into the air in great leaps of excitement. They rolled in
the dew, they cropped mouthfuls of the sweep summer grass, they kicked up
clods of the black earth and snuffed its rich scent. Then they made a tour
of inspection of the whole ploughland, the hayfield, the orchard, the pool,
the spinney. It was as though they had never seen these things before, and
even now they could hardly believe that it was all their own.
Then they filed back to the farm buildings and halted in silence outside the
door of the farmhouse. That was theirs too, but they were frightened to go
inside. After a moment, however, Snowball and Napoleon butted the door open
with their shoulders and the animals entered in single file, walking with the
utmost care for fear of disturbing anything. They tiptoed from room to room,
afraid to speak above a whisper and gazing with an kind of awe at the
unbelievable luxury, at the beds with their feather mattresses, the looking-
glasses, the horsehair sofa, the Brussels carpet, the lithograph of Queen
Victoria over the drawing-room mantelpiece. They were just coming down the
stairs when Mollie was discovered to be missing. Going back, the others
found that she had remained behind in the best bedroom. She had taken a
piece of blue ribbon from Mrs. Jones's dressing-table, and was holding it
against her shoulder and admiring herself in the glass in a very foolish
manner. The others reproached her sharply, and they went outside. Some hams
hanging in the kitchen were taken out for burial, and the barrel of beer in
the scullery was stove in with a kick from Boxer's hoof, otherwise nothing in
the house was touched. A unanimous resolution was passed on the spot that
the farmhouse should be preserved as a museum. All were agreed that no
animal must ever live there.
The animals had their breakfast, and then Snowball and Napoleon called them
together again.
"Comrades," said Snowball, "it is half-past six and we have a long day before
us. Today we begin the hay harvest. But there is another matter that must
be attended to first."
The pigs now revealed that during the past three months they had taught
themselves to read and write from an old spelling book which had belonged to
Mr. Jones's children and which had been thrown on the rubbish heap. Napoleon
sent for pots of black and white paint and led the way down to the five-
barred gate that gave on to the main road. Then Snowball (for it was
Snowball who was best at writing) took a brush between the two knuckles of
his trotter, painted out 'Manor Farm' from the top bar of the gate and in its
place painted 'Animal Farm'. This was to be the name of the farm from now
onwards. After this they went back to the farm buildings, where Snowball and
Napoleon sent for a ladder which they caused to be set against the end wall
of the big barn. They explained that by their studies of the past three
months the pigs had succeeded in reducing the principles of Animalism to
Seven Commandments. These Seven Commandments would now be inscribed on the
wall; they would form an unalterable law by which all the animals on Animal
Farm must live for ever after. With some difficulty (for it is not easy for
a pig to balance himself on a ladder) Snowball climbed up and set to work,
with Squealer a few rungs below him holding the paint-pot. The Commandments
were written on the tarred wall in great white letters that could be read
thirty yards away. They ran thus:
THE SEVEN COMMANDMENTS
1. Whatever goes upon two legs is an enemy.
2. Whatever goes upon four legs, or has wings,
is a friend.
3. No animal shall wear clothes.
4. No animal shall sleep in a bed.
5. No animal shall drink alcohol.
6. No animal shall kill any other animal.
7. All animals are equal.
It was very neatly written, and except that "friend" was written "freind"
and one of the "S's" was the wrong way round, the spelling was correct all
the way through. Snowball read it aloud for the benefit of the others. All
the animals nodded in complete agreement, and the cleverer ones at once began
to learn the Commandments by heart.
"Now, comrades," cried Snowball, throwing down the paint-brush, "to the
hayfield! Let us make it a point of honour to get in the harvest more
quickly than Jones and his men could do."
But at this moment the three cows, who had seemed uneasy for some time past,
set up a loud lowing. They had not been milked for twenty-four hours, and
their udders were almost bursting. After a little thought, the pigs sent for
buckets and milked the cows fairly successfully, their trotters being well
adapted to this task. Soon there were five buckets of frothing creamy milk
at which many of the animals looked with considerable interest.
"What is going to happen to all that milk?" said someone.
"Jones used sometimes to mix some of it in our mash," said one of the hens.
"Never mind the milk, comrades!" cried Napoleon, placing himself in front of
the buckets. "That will be attended to. The harvest is more important.
Comrade Snowball will lead the way. I shall follow in a few minutes.
Forward, comrades! The hay is waiting."
So the animals trooped down to the hayfield to begin the harvest, and when
they came back in the evening it was noticed that the milk had disappeared.
Chapter III:
How they toiled and sweated to get the hay in! But their efforts were
rewarded, for the harvest was an even bigger success than they had hoped.
Sometimes the work was hard; the implements had been designed for human
beings and not for animals, and it was a great drawback that no animal was
able to use any tool that involved standing on his hind legs. But the pigs
were so clever that they could think of a way round every difficulty. As for
the horses, they knew every inch of the field, and in fact understood the
business of mowing and raking far better than Jones and his men had ever
done. The pigs did not actually work, but directed and supervised the
others. With their superior knowledge it was natural that they should assume
the leadership. Boxer and Clover would harness themselves to the cutter or
the horse-rake (no bits or reins were needed in these days, of course) and
tramp steadily round and round the field with a pig walking behind and
calling out "Gee up, comrade!" or "Whoa back, comrade!" as the case might be.
And every animal down to the humblest worked at turning the hay and gathering
it. Even the ducks and hens toiled to and fro all day in the sun, carrying
tiny wisps of hay in their beaks. In the end they finished the harvest in
two days' less time than it had usually taken Jones and his men. Moreover,
it was the biggest harvest that the farm had ever seen. There was no wastage
whatever; the hens and ducks with their sharp eyes had gathered up the very
last stalk. And not an animal on the farm had stolen so much as a mouthful.
All through that summer the work of the farm went like clockwork. The
animals were happy as they had never conceived it possible to be. Every
mouthful of food was an acute positive pleasure, now that it was truly their
own food, produced by themselves and for themselves, not doled out to them by
a grudging master. With the worthless parasitical human beings gone, there
was more for everyone to eat. There was more leisure too, inexperienced
though the animals were. They met with many difficulties--for instance,
later in the year, when they had harvested the corn, they had to tread it out
in the ancient style and blow away the chaff with their breath, since the
farm possessed no threshing machine--but the pigs with their cleverness and
Boxer with his tremendous muscles always pulled them through. Boxer was the
admiration of everybody. He had been a hard worker even in Jones's time, but
now he seemed more like three horses than one; there were days when the
entire work of the farm seemed to rest on his mighty shoulders. From morning
to night he was pushing and pulling, always at the spot where the work was
hardest. He had made an arrangement with one of the cockerels to call him in
the mornings half an hour earlier than anyone else, and would put in some
volunteer labour at whatever seemed to be most needed, before the regular
day's work began. His answer to every problem, every setback, was "I will
work harder!"--which he had adopted as his personal motto.
But everyone worked according to his capacity. The hens and ducks, for
instance, saved five bushels of corn at the harvest by gathering up the stray
grains. Nobody stole, nobody grumbled over his rations, the quarrelling and
biting and jealousy which had been normal features of life in the old days
had almost disappeared. Nobody shirked--or almost nobody. Mollie, it was
true was not good at getting up in the mornings, and had a way of leaving
work early on the ground that there was a stone in her hoof. And the
behaviour of the cat was somewhat peculiar. It was soon noticed that when
there was work to be done the cat could never be found. She would vanish for
hours on end, and then reappear at meal-times, or in the evening after work
was over, as though nothing had happened. But she always made such excellent
excuses, and purred so affectionately, that it was impossible not to believe
in her good intentions. Old Benjamin, the donkey, seemed quite unchanged
since the Rebellion. He did his work in the same slow obstinate way as he
had done it in Jones's time, never shirking and never volunteering for extra
work either. About the Rebellion and its results he would express no
opinion. When asked whether he was not happier now that Jones was gone, he
would say only "Donkeys live a long time. None of you has ever seen a dead
donkey," and the others had to be content with this cryptic answer.
On Sundays there was no work. Breakfast was an hour later than usual, and
after breakfast there was a ceremony which was observed every week without
fail. First came the hoisting of the flag. Snowball had found in the
harness-room an old green tablecloth of Mrs. Jones's and had painted on it a
hoof and a horn in white. This was run up the flagstaff in the farmhouse
garden every Sunday morning. The flag was green, Snowball explained, to
represent the green fields of England, while the hoof and horn signified the
future Republic of the Animals which would arise when the human race had been
finally overthrown. After the hoisting of the flag all the animals trooped
into the big barn for a general assembly which was known as the Meeting.
Here the work of the coming week was planned out and resolutions were put
forward and debated. It was always the pigs who put forward the resolutions.
The other animals understood how to vote, but could never think of any
resolutions of their own. Snowball and Napoleon were by far the most active
in the debates. But it was noticed that these two were never in agreement;
whatever suggestion either of them made, the other could be counted on to
oppose it. Even when it was resolved--a thing no one could object to in
itself--to set aside the small paddock behind the orchard as a home of rest
for animals who were past work, there was a stormy debate over the correct
retiring age for each class of animal. The Meeting always ended with the
singing of 'Beasts of England', and the afternoon was given up to recreation.
The pigs had set aside the harness-room as a headquarters for themselves.
Here, in the evenings, they studied blacksmithing, carpentering, and other
necessary arts from books which they had brought out of the farmhouse.
Snowball also busied himself with organising the other animals into what he
called Animal Committees. He was indefatigable at this. He formed the Egg
Production Committee for the hens, the Clean Tails League for the cows, the
Wild Comrades' Re-education Committee (the object of this was to tame the
rats and rabbits), the Whiter Wool Movement for the sheep, and various
others, besides instituting classes in reading and writing. On the whole,
these projects were a failure. The attempt to tame the wild creatures, for
instance, broke down almost immediately. They continued to behave very much
as before, and when treated with generosity, simply took advantage of it.
The cat joined the Re-education Committee and was very active in it for some
days. She was seen one day sitting on a roof and talking to some sparrows
who were just out of her reach. She was telling them that all animals were
now comrades and that any sparrow who chose could come and perch on her paw;
but the sparrows kept their distance.
The reading and writing classes, however, were a great success. By the
autumn almost every animal on the farm was literate in some degree.
As for the pigs, they could already read and write perfectly. The dogs
learned to read fairly well, but were not interested in reading anything
except the Seven Commandments. Muriel, the goat, could read somewhat better
than the dogs, and sometimes used to read to the others in the evenings from
scraps of newspaper which she found on the rubbish heap. Benjamin could read
as well as any pig, but never exercised his faculty. So far as he knew, he
said, there was nothing worth reading. Clover learnt the whole alphabet, but
could not put words together. Boxer could not get beyond the letter D. He
would trace out A, B, C, D, in the dust with his great hoof, and then would
stand staring at the letters with his ears back, sometimes shaking his
forelock, trying with all his might to remember what came next and never
succeeding. On several occasions, indeed, he did learn E, F, G, H, but by
the time he knew them, it was always discovered that he had forgotten A, B,
C, and D. Finally he decided to be content with the first four letters, and
used to write them out once or twice every day to refresh his memory. Mollie
refused to learn any but the six letters which spelt her own name. She would
form these very neatly out of pieces of twig, and would decorate them with a
flower or two and walk round them admiring them.
None of the other animals on the farm could get further than the letter A.
It was also found that the stupider animals, such as the sheep, hens, and
ducks, were unable to learn the Seven Commandments by heart. After much
thought Snowball declared that the Seven Commandments could in effect be
reduced to a single maxim, namely: "Four legs good, two legs bad." This, he
said, contained the essential principle of Animalism. Whoever had thoroughly
grasped it would be safe from human influences. The birds at first objected,
since it seemed to them that they also had two legs, but Snowball proved to
them that this was not so.
"A bird's wing, comrades," he said, "is an organ of propulsion and not of
manipulation. It should therefore be regarded as a leg. The distinguishing
mark of man is the hand, the instrument with which he does all his mischief."
The birds did not understand Snowball's long words, but they accepted his
explanation, and all the humbler animals set to work to learn the new maxim
by heart. "Four legs good, two legs bad," was inscribed on the end wall of
the barn, above the Seven Commandments and in bigger letters. When they had
once got it by heart, the sheep developed a great liking for this maxim, and
often as they lay in the field they would all start bleating "Four legs good,
two legs bad! Four legs good, two legs bad!" and keep it up for hours on
end, never growing tired of it.
Napoleon took no interest in Snowball's committees. He said that the
education of the young was more important than anything that could be done
for those who were already grown up. It happened that Jessie and Bluebell
had both whelped soon after the hay harvest, giving birth between them to
nine sturdy puppies. As soon as they were weaned, Napoleon took them away
from their mothers, saying that he would make himself responsible for their
education. He took them up into a loft which could only be reached by a
ladder from the harness-room, and there kept them in such seclusion that the
rest of the farm soon forgot their existence.
The mystery of where the milk went to was soon cleared up. It was mixed
every day into the pigs' mash. The early apples were not ripening, and the
grass of the orchard was littered with windfalls. The animals had assumed as
a matter of course that these would be shared out equally; one day, however,
the order went forth that all the windfalls were to be collected and brought
to the harness-room for the use of the pigs. At this some of the other
animals murmured, but it was no use. All the pigs were in full agreement on
this point, even Snowball and Napoleon. Squealer was sent to make the
necessary explanations to the others.
"Comrades!" he cried. "You do not imagine, I hope, that we pigs are doing
this in a spirit of selfishness and privilege? Many of us actually dislike
milk and apples. I dislike them myself. Our sole object in taking these
things is to preserve our health. Milk and apples (this has been proved by
Science, comrades) contain substances absolutely necessary to the well-being
of a pig. We pigs are brainworkers. The whole management and organisation
of this farm depend on us. Day and night we are watching over your welfare.
It is for your sake that we drink that milk and eat those apples. Do you
know what would happen if we pigs failed in our duty? Jones would come back!
yes, Jones would come back! Surely, comrades," cried Squealer almost
pleadingly, skipping from side to side and whisking his tail, "surely there
is no one among you who wants to see Jones come back?"
Now if there was one thing the animals were completely certain of, it was
that they did not want Jones back. When it was put to them in this light
they had no more to say. The importance of keeping the pigs in good health
was all too obvious. So it was agreed without further argument that the milk
and the windfall apples (and also the main crop of apples when they ripened)
should be reserved for the pigs along.
Chapter IV:
By the late summer the news of what had happened on Animal Farm had spread
across half the county. Every day Snowball and Napoleon sent out flights of
pigeons whose instructions were to mingle with the animals on neighbouring
farms, tell them the story of the Rebellion, and teach them the tune of
'Beasts of England'.
Most of this time Mr. Jones had spent sitting in the taproom of the Red Lion
at Willingdon, complaining to anyone who would listen of the monstrous
injustice he had suffered in being turned out of his property by a pack of
good-for-nothing animals. The other farmers sympathised in principle, but
they did not at first give him much help. At heart, each of them was
secretly wondering whether he could not somehow turn Jones's misfortune to
his own advantage. It was lucky that the owners of the two farms which
adjoined Animal Farm were on permanently bad terms. One of them, which was
named Foxwood, was a large, neglected, old-fashioned farm, much overgrown by
woodland, with all its pastures worn out and its hedges in a disgraceful
condition. Its owner, Mr. Pilkington, was an easy-going gentleman farmer who
spent most of his time in fishing or hunting according to the season. The
other farm, which was called Pinchfield, was smaller and better kept. Its
owner was a Mr. Frederick, a tough, shrewd man, perpetually involved in
lawsuits and with a name for driving hard bargains. These two disliked each
other so much that it was difficult for them to come to any agreement, even
in defence of their own interests.
Nevertheless, they were both thoroughly frightened by the rebellion on Animal
Farm, and very anxious to prevent their own animals from learning too much
about it. At first they pretended to laugh to scorn the idea of animals
managing a farm for themselves. The whole thing would be over in a
fortnight, they said. The put it about that the animals on the Manor Farm
(they insisted on calling it the Manor Farm; they would not tolerate the name
"Animal Farm") were perpetually fighting among themselves and were also
rapidly starving to death. When time passed and the animals had evidently
not starved to death, Frederick and Pilkington changed their tune and began
to talk of the terrible wickedness that now flourished on Animal Farm. It
was given out that the animals there practised cannibalism, tortured one
another with red-hot horseshoes, and had their females in common. This was
what came of rebelling against the laws of Nature, Frederick and Pilkington
said.
However, these stories were never fully believed. Rumours of a wonderful
farm, where the human beings had been turned out and the animals managed
their own affairs, continued to circulate in vague and distorted forms, and
throughout that year a wave of rebelliousness ran through the countryside.
Bulls which had always been tractable suddenly turned savage, sheep broke
down hedges and devoured the clover, cows kicked the pail over, hunters
refused their fences and shot their riders on to the other side. Above all,
the tune and even the words of 'Beasts of England' were known everywhere. It
had spread with astonishing speed. The human beings could not contain their
rage when they heard this song, though they pretended to think it mere
ridiculous. They could not understand, they said, how even animals could
bring themselves to sing such contemptible rubbish. Any animal caught
singing it was given a flogging on the spot. And yet the song was
irrepressible. The blackbirds whistled it in the hedges, the pigeons cooed
it in the elms, it got into the din of the smithies and the tune of the
church bells. And then the human beings listened to it, they secretly
trembled, hearing in it a prophecy of their future doom.
Early in October, when the corn was cut and stacked and some of it was
already threshed, a flight of pigeons came whirling through the air and
alighted in the yard of Animal Farm in the wildest excitement. Jones and all
his men, with half a dozen others from Foxwood and Pinchfield, had entered
the five-barred gate and were coming up the cart-track that lead to the farm.
They were all carrying sticks, except Jones, who was marching ahead with a
gun in his hands. Obviously they were going to attempt the recapture of the
farm.
This had long been expected, and all preparations had been made. Snowball,
who had studied an old book of Julius Caesar's campaigns which he had found
in the farmhouse, was in charge of the defensive operations. He gave his
orders quickly, and in a couple of minutes every animal was at his post.
As the human beings approached the farm buildings, Snowball launched his
first attack. All the pigeons, to the number of thirty-five, flew to and fro
over the men's heads and muted upon them from mid-air; and while the men were
dealing with this, the geese, who had been hiding behind the hedge, rushed
out and pecked viciously at the calves of their legs. However, this was only
a light skirmishing manoeuvre, intended to create a little disorder, and the
men easily drove the geese off with their sticks. Snowball now launched his
second line of attack. Muriel, Benjamin, and all the sheep, with Snowball at
the head of them, rushed forward and prodded and butted the men from every
side, while Benjamin turned around and lashed at them with his small hoofs.
But once again the men, with their sticks and their hobnailed boots, were too
strong for them; and suddenly, at a squeal from Snowball, which was the
signal for retreat, all the animals turned and fled through the gateway into
the yard.
The men gave a shout of triumph. They saw, as they imagined, their enemies
in flight, and they rushed after them in disorder. This was just what
Snowball had intended. As soon as they were well inside the yard, the three
horses, the three cows, and the rest of the pigs, who had been lying in
ambush in the cowshed, suddenly emerged in their rear, cutting them off.
Snowball now gave the signal for the charge. He himself dashed straight for
Jones. Jones saw him coming, raised his gun and fired. The pellets scored
bloody streaks along Snowball's back, and a sheep dropped dead. Without
halting for an instant, Snowball flung his fifteen stone against Jones's
legs. Jones was hurled into a pile of dung and his gun flew out of his
hands. But the most terrifying spectacle of all was Boxer, rearing up on his
hind legs and striking out with his great iron-shod hoofs like a stallion.
His very first blow took a stable-lad from Foxwood on the skull and stretched
him lifeless in the mud. At the sight, several men dropped their sticks and
tried to run. Panic overtook them, and the next moment all the animals
together were chasing them round and round the yard. They were gored,
kicked, bitten, trampled on. There was not an animal on the farm that did
not take vengeance on them after his own fashion. Even the cat suddenly
leapt off a roof onto a cowman's shoulders and sank her claws in his neck, at
which he yelled horribly. At a moment when the opening was clear, the men
were glad enough to rush out of the yard and make a bolt for the main road.
And so within five minutes of their invasion they were in ignominious retreat
by the same way they had come, with a flock of geese hissing after them and
pecking at their calves all the way.
All the men were gone except one. Back in the yard Boxer was pawing with his
hoof at the stable-lad who lay face down in the mud, trying to turn him over.
The boy did not stir.
"He is dead," said Boxer sorrowfully. "I had no intention of doing that. I
forgot that I was wearing iron shoes. Who will believe that I did not do
this on purpose?"
"No sentimentality, comrade!" cried Snowball, from whose wounds the blood was
still dripping. "War is war. The only good human being is a dead one."
"I have no wish to take life, not even human life," repeated Boxer, and his
eyes were full of tears.
"Where is Mollie?" exclaimed somebody.
Mollie in fact was missing. For a moment there was great alarm; it was
feared that the men might have harmed her in some way, or even carried her
off with them. In the end, however, she was found hiding in her stall with
her head buried among the hay in the manger. She had taken to flight as soon
as the gun went off. And when the others came back from looking for her, it
was to find that the stable-lad, who in fact was only stunned, had already
recovered and made off.
The animals had now reassembled in the wildest excitement, each recounting
his own exploits in the battle at the top of his voice. An impromptu
celebration of the victory was held immediately. The flag was run up and
'Beasts of England' was sung a number of times, then the sheep who had been
killed was given a solemn funeral, a hawthorn bush being planted on her
grave. At the graveside Snowball made a little speech, emphasising the need
for all animals to be ready to die for Animal Farm if need be.
The animals decided unanimously to create a military decoration, "Animal
Hero, First Class," which was conferred there and then on Snowball and Boxer.
It consisted of a brass medal (they were really some old horse-brasses which
had been found in the harness-room), to be worn on Sundays and holidays.
There was also "Animal Hero, Second Class," which was conferred posthumously
on the dead sheep.
There was much discussion as to what the battle should be called. In the
end, it was named the Battle of the Cowshed, since that was where the ambush
had been sprung. Mr. Jones's gun had been found lying in the mud, and it was
known that there was a supply of cartridges in the farmhouse. It was decided
to set the gun up at the foot of the flagstaff, like a piece of artillery,
and to fire it twice a year--once on October the twelfth, the anniversary of
the Battle of the Cowshed, and once on Midsummer Day, the anniversary of the
Rebellion.
Chapter V:
As winter drew on, Mollie became more and more troublesome. She was late for
work every morning and excused herself by saying that she had overslept, and
she complained of mysterious pains, although her appetite was excellent. On
every kind of pretext she would run away from work and go to the drinking
pool, where she would stand foolishly gazing at her own reflection in the
water. But there were also rumours of something more serious. One day as
Mollie strolled blithely into the yard, flirting her long tail and chewing at
a stalk of hay, Clover took her aside.
"Mollie," she said, "I have something very serious to say to you. This
morning I saw you looking over the hedge that divides Animal Farm from
Foxwood. One of Mr. Pilkington's men was standing on the other side of the
hedge. And--I was a long way away, but I am almost certain I saw this--he
was talking to you and you were allowing him to stroke your nose. What does
that mean, Mollie?"
"He didn't! I wasn't! It isn't true!" cried Mollie, beginning to prance
about and paw the ground.
"Mollie! Look me in the face. Do you give me your word of honour that that
man was not stroking your nose?"
"It isn't true!" repeated Mollie, but she could not look Clover in the fact,
and the next moment she took to her heels and galloped away into the field.
A thought struck Clover. Without saying anything to the others, she went to
Mollie's stall and turned over the straw with her hoof. Hidden under the
straw was a little pile of lump sugar and several bunches of ribbon of
different colours.
Three days later Mollie disappeared. For some weeks nothing was known of her
whereabouts, then the pigeons reported that they had seen her on the other
side of Willingdon. She was between the shafts of a smart dogcart painted
red and black, which was standing outside a public-house. A fat red-faced
man in check breeches and gaiters, who looked like a publican, was stroking
her nose and feeding her with sugar. Her coat was newly clipped and she wore
a scarlet ribbon round her forelock. She appeared to be enjoying herself, so
the pigeons said. None of the animals ever mentioned Mollie again.
In January there came bitterly hard weather. The earth was like iron, and
nothing could be done in the fields. Many meetings were held in the big
barn, and the pigs occupied themselves with planning out the work of the
coming season. It had come to be accepted that the pigs, who were manifestly
cleverer than the other animals, should decide all questions of farm policy,
though their decisions had to be ratified by a majority vote. This
arrangement would have worked well enough if it had not been for the disputes
between Snowball and Napoleon. These two disagreed at every point where
disagreement was possible. If one of them suggested sowing a bigger acreage
with barley, the other was certain to demand a bigger acreage of oats, and if
one of them said that such and such a field was just right for cabbages, the
other would declare that it was useless for anything except roots. Each had
his own following, and there were some violent debates. At the Meetings
Snowball often won over the majority by his brilliant speeches, but Napoleon
was better at canvassing support for himself in between times. He was
especially successful with the sheep. Of late the sheep had taken to
bleating "Four legs good, two legs bad" both in and out of season, and they
often interrupted the Meeting with this. It was noticed that they were
especially liable to break into "Four legs good, two legs bad" at crucial
moments in Snowball's speeches. Snowball had made a close study of some back
numbers of the 'Farmer and Stockbreeder' which he had found in the farmhouse,
and was full of plans for innovations and improvements. He talked learnedly
about field-drains, silage, and basic slag, and had worked out a complicated
scheme for all the animals to drop their dung directly in the fields, at a
different spot every day, to save the labour of cartage. Napoleon produced
no schemes of his own, but said quietly that Snowball's would come to
nothing, and seemed to be biding his time. But of all their controversies,
none was so bitter as the one that took place over the windmill.
In the long pasture, not far from the farm buildings, there was a small knoll
which was the highest point on the farm. After surveying the ground,
Snowball declared that this was just the place for a windmill, which could be
made to operate a dynamo and supply the farm with electrical power. This
would light the stalls and warm them in winter, and would also run a circular
saw, a chaff-cutter, a mangel-slicer, and an electric milking machine. The
animals had never heard of anything of this kind before (for the farm was an
old-fashioned one and had only the most primitive machinery), and they
listened in astonishment while Snowball conjured up pictures of fantastic
machines which would do the work for them while they grazed at their ease in
the fields or improved their minds with reading and conversation.
Within a few weeks Snowball's plans for the windmill were fully worked out.
The mechanical details came mostly from three books which had belonged to Mr.
Jones--'One Thousand Things to Do About the House', 'Every Man His Own
Bricklayer', and 'Electricity for Beginners'. Snowball used as his study a
shed which had once been used for incubators and had a smooth wooden floor,
suitable for drawing on. He was closeted there for hours at a time. With
his books held open by a stone, and with a piece of chalk gripped between the
knuckles of his trotter, he would move rapidly to and fro, drawing in line
after line and uttering little whimpers of excitement. Gradually the plans
grew into a complicated mass of cranks and cog-wheels, covering more than
half the floor, which the other animals found completely unintelligible but
very impressive. All of them came to look at Snowball's drawings at least
once a day. Even the hens and ducks came, and were at pains not to tread on
the chalk marks. Only Napoleon held aloof. He had declared himself against
the windmill from the start. One day, however, he arrived unexpectedly to
examine the plans. He walked heavily round the shed, looked closely at every
detail of the plans and snuffed at them once or twice, then stood for a
little while contemplating them out of the corner of his eye; then suddenly
he lifted his leg, urinated over the plans. and walked out without uttering
a word.
The whole farm was deeply divided on the subject of the windmill. Snowball
did not deny that to build it would be a difficult business. Stone would
have to be carried and built up into walls, then the sails would have to be
made and after that there would be need for dynamos and cables. (How these
were to be procured, Snowball did not say.) But he maintained that it could
all be done in a year. And thereafter, he declared, so much labour would be
saved that the animals would only need to work three days a week. Napoleon,
on the other hand, argued that the great need of the moment was to increase
food production, and that if they wasted time on the windmill they would all
starve to death. The animals formed themselves into two factions under the
slogan, "Vote for Snowball and the three-day week" and "Vote for Napoleon and
the full manger." Benjamin was the only animal who did not side with either
faction. He refused to believe either that food would become more plentiful
or that the windmill would save work. Windmill or no windmill, he said, life
would go on as it had always gone on--that is, badly.
Apart from the disputes over the windmill, there was the question of the
defence of the farm. It was fully realised that though the human beings had
been defeated in the Battle of the Cowshed they might make another and more
determined attempt to recapture the farm and reinstate Mr. Jones. They had
all the more reason for doing so because the news of their defeat had spread
across the countryside and made the animals on the neighbouring farms more
restive than ever. As usual, Snowball and Napoleon were in disagreement.
According to Napoleon, what the animals must do was to procure firearms and
train themselves in the use of them. According to Snowball, they must send
out more and more pigeons and stir up rebellion among the animals on the
other farms. The one argued that if they could not defend themselves they
were bound to be conquered, the other argued that if rebellions happened
everywhere they would have no need to defend themselves. The animals
listened first to Napoleon, then to Snowball, and could not make up their
minds which was right; indeed, they always found themselves in agreement with
the one who was speaking at the moment.
At last the day came when Snowballs plans were completed. At the Meeting on
the following Sunday the question of whether or not to begin work on the
windmill was to be put to the vote. When the animals had assembled in the
big barn, Snowball stood up and, although occasionally interrupted by
bleating from the sheep, set forth his reasons for advocating the building of
the windmill. Then Napoleon stood up to reply. He said very quietly that
the windmill was nonsense and that he advised nobody to vote for it, and
promptly sat down again; he had spoken for barely thirty seconds, and seemed
almost indifferent to the effect he produced. At this Snowball sprang to his
feet, and shouting down the sheep, who had begun bleating again, broke into
a passionate appeal in favour of the windmill. Until now the animals had
been about equally divided in their sympathies, but in a moment Snowball's
eloquence had carried them away. In glowing sentences he painted a picture
of Animal Farm as it might be when sordid labour was lifted from the animals'
backs. His imagination had now run far beyond chaff-cutters and
turnip-slicers. Electricity, he said, could operate threshing machines,
ploughs, harrows, rollers, and reapers and binders, besides supplying every
stall with its own electric light, hot and cold water, and an electric
heater. By the time he had finished speaking, there was no doubt as to which
way the vote would go. But just at this moment Napoleon stood up and,
casting a peculiar sidelong look at Snowball, uttered a high-pitched whimper
of a kind no one had ever heard him utter before.
At this there was a terrible baying sound outside, and nine enormous dogs
wearing brass-studded collars came bounding into the barn. They dashed
straight for Snowball, who only sprang from his place just in time to escape
their snapping jaws. In a moment he was out of the door and they were after
him. Too amazed and frightened to speak, all the animals crowded through the
door to watch the chase. Snowball was racing across the long pasture that
led to the road. He was running as only a pig can run, but the dogs were
close on his heels. Suddenly he slipped and it seemed certain that they had
him. Then he was up again, running faster than ever, then the dogs were
gaining on him again. One of them all but closed his jaws on Snowball's
tail, but Snowball whisked it free just in time. Then he put on an extra
spurt and, with a few inches to spare, slipped through a hole in the hedge
and was seen no more.
Silent and terrified, the animals crept back into the barn. In a moment the
dogs came bounding back. At first no one had been able to imagine where
these creatures came from, but the problem was soon solved: they were the
puppies whom Napoleon had taken away from their mothers and reared privately.
Though not yet full-grown, they were huge dogs, and as fierce-looking as
wolves. They kept close to Napoleon. It was noticed that they wagged their
tails to him in the same way as the other dogs had been used to do to Mr.
Jones.
Napoleon, with the dogs following him, now mounted on to the raised portion
of the floor where Major had previously stood to deliver his speech. He
announced that from now on the Sunday-morning Meetings would come to an end.
They were unnecessary, he said, and wasted time. In future all questions
relating to the working of the farm would be settled by a special committee
of pigs, presided over by himself. These would meet in private and
afterwards communicate their decisions to the others. The animals would
still assemble on Sunday mornings to salute the flag, sing 'Beasts of
England', and receive their orders for the week; but there would be no more
debates.
In spite of the shock that Snowball's expulsion had given them, the animals
were dismayed by this announcement. Several of them would have protested if
they could have found the right arguments. Even Boxer was vaguely troubled.
He set his ears back, shook his forelock several times, and tried hard to
marshal his thoughts; but in the end he could not think of anything to say.
Some of the pigs themselves, however were more articulate. Four young
porkers in the front row uttered shrill squeals of disapproval, and all four
of them sprang to their feet and began speaking at once. But suddenly the
dogs sitting round Napoleon let out deep, menacing growls, and the pigs fell
silent and sat down again. Then the sheep broke out into a tremendous
bleating of "Four legs good, two legs bad!" which went on for nearly a
quarter of an hour and put an end to any chance of discussion.
Afterwards Squealer was sent round the farm to explain the new arrangement to
the others.
"Comrades," he said, "I trust that every animal here appreciates the
sacrifice that Comrade Napoleon has made in taking this extra labour upon
himself. Do not imagine, comrades, that leadership is a pleasure! On the
contrary, it is a deep and heavy responsibility. No one believes more firmly
than Comrade Napoleon that all animals are equal. He would be only too happy
to let you make your decisions for yourselves. But sometimes you might make
the wrong decisions, comrades, and then where should we be? Suppose you had
decided to follow Snowball, with his moonshine of windmills--Snowball, who,
as we now know, was no better than a criminal?"
"He fought bravely at the Battle of the Cowshed," said somebody.
"Bravery is not enough," said Squealer. "Loyalty and obedience are more
important. and as to the Battle of the Cowshed, I believe the time will come
when we shall find that Snowball's part in it was much exaggerated.
Discipline, comrades, iron discipline! That is the watchword for today. One
false step and our enemies would be upon us. Surely comrades, you do not
want Jones back?"
Once again this argument was unanswerable. Certainly the animals did not
want Jones back; if the holding of debates on Sunday mornings was liable to
bring him back, then the debates must stop. Boxer, who had now had time to
think things over, voiced the general feeling by saying: "If Comrade
Napoleon says it, it must be right." And from then on he adopted the maxim
"Napoleon is always right," in addition to his private motto of "I will work
harder."
By this time the weather had broken and the spring ploughing had begun. The
shed where Snowball had drawn his plans of the windmill had been shut up and
it was assumed that the plans had been rubbed off the floor. Every Sunday
morning at ten o'clock the animals assembled in the big barn to receive their
orders for the week. The skull of old Major, now clean of flesh, had been
disinterred from the orchard and set up on a stump at the foot of the
flagstaff, beside the gun. After the hoisting of the flag, the animals were
required to file past the skull in a reverent manner before entering the
barn. Nowadays they did not sit all together as they had done in the past.
Napoleon, with Squealer and another pig named Minimus, who had a remarkable
gift for composing songs and poems, sat on the front of the raised platform,
with the nine young dogs forming a semicircle round them, and the other pigs
sitting behind. The rest of the animals sat facing them in the main body of
the barn. Napoleon read out the orders for the week in a gruff soldierly
style, and after a single singing of 'Beasts of England', all the animals
dispersed.
On the third Sunday after Snowball's expulsion, the animals were somewhat
surprised to hear Napoleon announce that the windmill was to be built after
all. He did not give any reason for having changed his mind, but merely
warned the animals that this extra task would mean very hard work; it might
even be necessary to reduce their rations. The plans, however, had all been
prepared, down to the last detail. A special committee of pigs had been at
work upon them for the past three weeks. The building of the windmill, with
various other improvements, was expected to take two years.
That evening Squealer explained privately to the other animals that Napoleon
had never in reality been opposed to the windmill. On the contrary, it was
he who had advocated it in the beginning, and the plan which Snowball had
drawn on the floor of the incubator shed had actually been stolen from among
Napoleon's papers. The windmill was, in fact, Napoleon's own creation. Why,
then, asked somebody, had he spoken so strongly against it? Here Squealer
looked very sly. That, he said, was Comrade Napoleon's cunning. He had
seemed to oppose the windmill, simply as a manoeuvre to get rid of Snowball,
who was a dangerous character and a bad influence. Now that Snowball was out
of the way, the plan could go forward without his interference. This, said
Squealer, was something called tactics. He repeated a number of times,
"Tactics, comrades, tactics!" skipping round and whisking his tail with a
merry laugh. The animals were not certain what the word meant, but Squealer
spoke so persuasively, and the three dogs who happened to be with him growled
so threateningly, that they accepted his explanation without further
questions.
Chapter VI:
All that year the animals worked like slaves. But they were happy in their
work; they grudged no effort or sacrifice, well aware that everything that
they did was for the benefit of themselves and those of their kind who would
come after them, and not for a pack of idle, thieving human beings.
Throughout the spring and summer they worked a sixty-hour week, and in August
Napoleon announced that there would be work on Sunday afternoons as well.
This work was strictly voluntary, but any animal who absented himself would
have his rations reduced by half. Even so, it was found necessary to leave
certain tasks undone. The harvest was a little less successful than in the
previous year, and two fields which should have been sown with roots in the
early summer were now sown because the ploughing had not been completed early
enough. It was possible to foresee that the coming winter would be a hard
one.
The windmill presented unexpected difficulties. There was a good quarry of
limestone on the farm, and plenty of sand and cement had been found in one of
the outhouses, so that all the materials for building were at hand. But the
problem the animals could not at first solve was how to break up the stone
into pieces of suitable size. There seemed no way of doing this except with
picks and crowbars, which no animal could use, because no animal could stand
on his hind legs. Only after weeks of vain effort did the right idea occur
to somebody--namely, to utilise the force of gravity. Huge boulders, far too
big to be used as they were, were lying all over the bed of the quarry. The
animals lashed ropes round these, and then all together, cows, horses, sheep,
any animal that would lay hold of the rope--even the pigs sometimes joined at
critical moments--they dragged them with desperate slowness up the slope to
the top of the quarry, where they were toppled over the edge, to shatter to
pieces below. Transporting the stone when it was once broken was
comparatively simple. The horses carried it off in cart-loads, the sheep
dragged single blocks, even Muriel and Benjamin yoked themselves into an old
governess-cart and did their share. By late summer a sufficient store of
stone had accumulated, and then the building began, under the superintendence
of the pigs.
But it was a slow, laborious process. Frequently it took a whole day of
exhausting effort to drag a single boulder to the top of the quarry, and
sometimes when it was pushed over the ledge it failed to break. Nothing
could have been achieved without Boxer, whose strength seemed equal to that
of all the other animals put together. When the boulder began to slip and
the animals cried out in despair at finding themselves dragged down the hill,
it was always Boxer who strained himself against the rope and brought the
boulder to a stop. To see him toiling up the slope inch by inch, his breath
coming fast, the tips of his hoofs clawing at the ground, and his great sides
matted with sweat, filled everyone with admiration. Clover warned him
sometimes to be careful not to overstrain himself, but Boxer would never
listen to her. His two slogans, "I will work harder" and "Napoleon is always
right," seemed to him a sufficient answer to all problems. He had made
arrangements with the cockerel to call him three-quarters of an hour earlier
in the mornings instead of half an hour. And in his spare moments, of which
there were not many nowadays, he would go alone to the quarry, collect a load
of broken stone, and drag it down to the site of the windmill unassisted.
The animals were not badly off throughout that summer, in spite of the
hardness of their work. If they had no more food than they had had in
Jones's day, at least they did not have less. The advantage of only having
to feed themselves, and not having to support five extravagant human beings
as well, was so great that it would have taken a lot of failures to outweigh
it. And in many ways the animal method of doing things was more efficient
and saved labour. Such jobs as weeding, for instance, could be done with a
thoroughness impossible to human beings. And again, since no animal now
stole, it was unnecessary to fence off pasture from arable land, which saved
a lot of labour on the upkeep of hedges and gates. Nevertheless, as the
summer wore on, various unforeseen shortages began to make themselves felt.
There was need of paraffin oil, nails, string, dog biscuits, and iron for the
horses' shoes, none of which could be produced on the farm. Later there
would also be the need for seeds and artificial manures, besides various
tools and, finally, the machinery for the windmill. How these were to be
procured, no one was able to imagine.
One Sunday morning, when the animals assembled to receive their orders,
Napoleon announced that he had decided upon a new policy. From now onwards
Animal Farm would engage in trade with the neighbouring farms: not, of
course, for any commercial purpose, but simply in order to obtain certain
materials which were urgently necessary. The needs of the windmill must
override everything else, he said. He was therefore making arrangements to
sell a stack of hay and part of the current year's wheat crop, and later on,
if more money were needed, it would have to be made up by the sale of eggs,
for which there was always a market in Willingdon. The hens, said Napoleon,
should welcome this sacrifice as their own special contribution towards the
building of the windmill.
Once again the animals were conscious of a vague uneasiness. Never to have
any dealings with human beings, never to engage in trade, never to make use
of money--had not these been among the earliest resolutions passed at that
first triumphant Meeting after Jones was expelled? All the animals
remembered passing such resolutions: or at least they thought that they
remembered it. The four young pigs who had protested when Napoleon abolished
the Meetings, but they were promptly silenced by a tremendous growling from
the dogs. Then, as usual, the sheep broke into "Four legs good, two legs
bad!" and the momentary awkwardness was smoothed over. Finally Napoleon
raised his trotter for silence and announced that he had already made all the
arrangements. There would be no need for any of the animals to come in
contact with human beings, which would clearly be most undesirable. He
intended to take the whole burden upon his own shoulders. A Mr. Whymper, a
solicitor living in Willingdon, had agreed to act as intermediary between
Animal Farm and the outside world, and would visit the farm every Monday
morning to receive his instructions. Napoleon ended his speech with his
usual cry of "Long live Animal Farm!" and after the singing of 'Beasts of
England' the animals were dismissed.
Afterwards Squealer made a round of the farm and set the animal's minds at
rest. He assured them that the resolution against engaging in trade and
using money had never been passed, or even suggested. It was pure
imagination, probably traceable in the beginning to lies circulated by
Snowball. A few animals still felt faintly doubtful, but Squealer asked them
shrewdly, "Are you certain that this is not something that you have dreamed,
comrades? Have you any record of such a resolution? Is it written down
anywhere?" And since it was certainly true that nothing of the kind existed
in writing, the animals were satisfied that they had been mistaken.
Every Monday Mr. Whymper visited the farm as had been arranged. He was a
sly-looking little man with side whiskers, a solicitor in a very small way of
business, but sharp enough to have realised earlier than anyone else that
Animal Farm would need a broker and that the commissions would be worth
having. The animals watched his coming and going with a kind of dread, and
avoided him as much as possible. Nevertheless, the sight of Napoleon, on all
fours, delivering orders to Whymper, who stood on two legs, roused their
pride and partly reconciled them to the new arrangement. Their relations
with the human race were now not quite the same as they had been before. The
human beings did not hate Animal Farm any less now that it was prospering;
indeed, they hated it more than ever. Every human being held it as an
article of faith that the farm would go bankrupt sooner or later, and above
all, that the windmill would be a failure. They would meet in the public
houses and prove to one another by means of diagrams that the windmill was
bound to fall down, or that if it did stand up, then that it would never
work. And yet, against their will, they had developed a certain respect for
the efficiency with which the animals were managing their own affairs. One
symptom of this was that they had begun to call Animal Farm by its proper
name and ceased to pretend that it was called the Manor Farm. They had also
dropped their championship of Jones, who had given up hope of getting his
farm back and gone to live in another part of the county. Except through
Whymper, there was as yet no contact between Animal Farm and the outside
world, but there were constant rumours that Napoleon was about to enter into
a definite business agreement either with Mr. Pilkington of Foxwood or with
Mr. Frederick of Pinchfield--but never, it was noticed, with both
simultaneously.
It was about this time that the pigs suddenly moved into the farmhouse and
took up their residence there. Again, the animals seemed to remember that a
resolution against this had been passed in the early days, and again Squealer
was able to convince them that this was not the case. It was absolutely
necessary, he said, that the pigs, who were the brains of the farm, should
have a quite place to work in. It was also more suited to the dignity of the
Leader (for of late he had taken to speaking of Napoleon under the title of
"Leader") to live in a house than in a mere sty. Nevertheless, some of the
animals were disturbed when they heard that the pigs not only took their
meals in the kitchen and used the drawing-room as a recreation room, but also
slept in the beds. Boxed passed it off as usual with "Napoleon is always
right!", but Clover, who thought she remembered a definite ruling against
beds, went to the end of the barn and tried to puzzle out the Seven
Commandments which were inscribed there. Finding herself unable to read more
than individual letters, she fetched Muriel.
"Muriel," she said, "read me the Fourth Commandment. Does it not say
something about never sleeping in a bed?"
With some difficulty Muriel spelt it out.
"It says, 'No animal shall sleep in a bed _with sheets_,'" she announced
finally.
Curiously enough, Clover had not remembered that the Fourth Commandment
mentioned sheets; but as it was there on the wall, it must have done so. And
Squealer, who happened to be passing at this moment, attended by two or three
dogs, was able to put the whole matter in its proper perspective.
"You have heard then, comrades," he said, "that we pigs now sleep in the beds
of the farmhouse? And why not? You did not suppose, surely, that there was
ever a ruling against _beds_? A bed merely means a place to sleep in. A
pile of straw in a stall is a bed, properly regarded. The rule was against
_sheets_, which are a human invention. We have removed the sheets from the
farmhouse beds, and sleep between blankets. And very comfortable beds they
are too! But not more comfortable than we need, I can tell you, comrades,
with all the brainwork we have to do nowadays. You would not rob us of our
repose, would you, comrades? You would not have us too tired to carry out
our duties? Surely none of you wishes to see Jones back?
The animals reassured him on this point immediately, and no more was said
about the pigs sleeping in the farmhouse beds. And when, some days
afterwards, it was announced that from not on the pigs would get up an hour
later in the mornings than the other animals, no complaint was made about
that either.
By the autumn the animals were tired but happy. They had had a hard year,
and after the sale of part of the hay and corn, the stores of food for the
winter were none too plentiful, but the windmill compensated for everything.
It was almost half built now. After the harvest there was a stretch of clear
dry weather, and the animals toiled harder than ever, thinking it well worth
while to plod to and fro all day with blocks of stone if by doing so they
could raise the walls another foot. Boxer would even come out at nights and
work for an hour or two on his own by the light of the harvest moon. In
their spare moments the animals would walk round and round the half-finished
mill, admiring the strength and perpendicularity of its walls and marvelling
that they should ever have been able to build anything so imposing. Only old
Benjamin refused to grow enthusiastic about the windmill, though, as usual,
he would utter nothing beyond the cryptic remark that donkeys live a long
time.
November came, with raging south-west winds. Building had to stop because it
was now too wet to mix the cement. Finally there came a night when the gale
was so violent that the farm buildings rocked on their foundations and
several tiles were blown off the roof of the barn. The hens woke up
squawking with terror because they had all dreamed simultaneously of hearing
a gun go off in the distance. In the morning the animals came out of their
stalls to find that the flagstaff had been blown down and an elm tree at the
foot of the orchard had been plucked up like a radish. They had just noticed
this when a cry of despair broke from every animal's throat. A terrible
sight had met their eyes. The windmill was in ruins.
With one accord they dashed down to the spot. Napoleon, who seldom moved out
of a walk, raced ahead of them all. Yes, there it lay, the fruit of all
their struggles, levelled to its foundations, the stones they had broken and
carried so laboriously scattered all around. Unable at first to speak, they
stood gazing mournfully at the litter of fallen stone. Napoleon paced to and
fro in silence, occasionally snuffing at the ground. His tail had grown
rigid and twitched sharply from side to side, a sign in him of intense mental
activity. Suddenly he halted as though his mind were made up.
"Comrades," he said quietly, "do you know who is responsible for this? Do
you know the enemy who has come in the night and overthrown our windmill?
SNOWBALL!" he suddenly roared in a voice of thunder. "Snowball has done this
thing! In sheer malignity, thinking to set back our plans and avenge himself
for his ignominious expulsion, this traitor has crept here under cover of
night and destroyed our work of nearly a year. Comrades, here and now I
pronounce the death sentence upon Snowball. 'Animal Hero, Second Class,' and
half a bushel of apples to any animal who brings him to justice. A full
bushel to anyone who captures him alive!"
The animals were shocked beyond measure to learn that even Snowball could be
guilty of such an action. There was a cry of indignation, and everyone began
thinking out ways of catching Snowball if he should ever come back. Almost
immediately the footprints of a pig were discovered in the grass at a little
distance from the knoll. They could only be traced for a few yards, but
appeared to lead off to a hole in the hedge. Napoleon snuffed deeply at them
and pronounced them to be Snowball's. He gave it as his opinion that
Snowball had probably come from the direction of Foxwood Farm.
"No more delays, comrades!" cried Napoleon when the footprints had been
examined. This very morning we begin rebuilding the windmill, and we will
build all through the winter, rain or shine. We will teach this miserable
traitor that he cannot undo our work so easily. Remember, comrades, there
must be no alteration in our plans: they shall be carried out to the day.
Forward, comrades! Long live the windmill! Long live Animal Farm!"
Chapter VII:
It was a bitter winter. The stormy weather was followed by sleet and snow,
and then by a hard frost which did not break till well into February. The
animals carried on as best they could with the rebuilding of the windmill,
well knowing that the outside world was watching them and that the envious
human beings would rejoice and triumph if the mill were not finished on time.
Out of spite, the human beings pretended not to believe that it was Snowball
who had destroyed the windmill: they said that it had fallen down because
the walls were too thin. The animals knew that this was not the case.
Still, it had been decided to build the walls three feet thick this time
instead of eighteen inches as before, which meant collecting much larger
quantities of stone. For a long time the quarry was full of snowdrifts and
nothing could be done. Some progress was made in the dry frosty weather that
followed, but it was cruel work, and the animals could not feel so hopeful
about it as they had felt before. They were always cold, and usually hungry
as well. Only Boxer and Clover never lost heart. Squealer made excellent
speeches on the joy of service and the dignity of labour, but the other
animals found more inspiration in Boxer's strength and his never-failing cry
of "I will work harder!"
In January food fell short. The corn ration was drastically reduced, and it
was announced that an extra potato ration would be issued to make up for it.
Then it was discovered that the greater part of the potato crop had been
frosted in the clamps, which had not been covered thickly enough. The
potatoes had become soft and discoloured, and only a few were edible. For
days at a time the animals had nothing to eat but chaff and mangels.
Starvation seemed to stare them in the face.
It was vitally necessary to conceal this fact from the outside world.
Emboldened by the collapse of the windmill, the human beings were inventing
fresh lies about Animal Farm. Once again it was being put about that all the
animals were dying of famine and disease, and that they were continually
fighting among themselves and had resorted to cannibalism and infanticide.
Napoleon was well aware of the bad results that might follow if the real
facts of the food situation were known, and he decided to make use of Mr.
Whymper to spread a contrary impression. Hitherto the animals had had little
or no contact with Whymper on his weekly visits: now, however, a few
selected animals, mostly sheep, were instructed to remark casually in his
hearing that rations had been increased. In addition, Napoleon ordered the
almost empty bins in the storeshed to be filled nearly to the brim with sand,
which was then covered up with what remained of the grain and meal. On some
suitable pretext Whymper was led through the store-shed and allowed to catch
a glimpse of the bins. He was deceived, and continued to report to the
outside world that there was no food shortage on Animal Farm.
Nevertheless, towards the end of January it became obvious that it would be
necessary to procure some more grain from somewhere. In these days Napoleon
rarely appeared in public, but spent all his time in the farmhouse, which was
guarded at each door by fierce-looking dogs. When he did emerge, it was in
a ceremonial manner, with an escort of six dogs who closely surrounded him
and growled if anyone came too near. Frequently he did not even appear on
Sunday mornings, but issued his orders through one of the other pigs, usually
Squealer.
One Sunday morning Squealer announced that the hens, who had just come in to
lay again, must surrender their eggs. Napoleon had accepted, through
Whymper, a contract for four hundred eggs a week. The price of these would
pay for enough grain and meal to keep the farm going till summer came on and
conditions were easier.
When the hens heard this, they raised a terrible outcry. They had been
warned earlier that this sacrifice might be necessary, but had not believed
that it would really happen. They were just getting their clutches ready for
the spring sitting, and they protested that to take the eggs away now was
murder. For the first time since the expulsion of Jones, there was something
resembling a rebellion. Led by three young Black Minorca pullets, the hens
made a determined effort to thwart Napoleon's wishes. Their method was to
fly up to the rafters and there lay their eggs, which smashed to pieces on
the floor. Napoleon acted swiftly and ruthlessly. He ordered the hens'
rations to be stopped, and decreed that any animal giving so much as a grain
of corn to a hen should be punished by death. The dogs saw to it that these
orders were carried out. For five days the hens held out, then they
capitulated and went back to their nesting boxes. Nine hens had died in the
meantime. Their bodies were buried in the orchard, and it was given out that
they had died of coccidiosis. Whymper heard nothing of this affair, and the
eggs were duly delivered, a grocer's van driving up to the farm once a week
to take them away.
All this while no more had been seen of Snowball. He was rumoured to be
hiding on ont of the neighbouring farms, either Foxwood or Pinchfield.
Napoleon was by this time on slightly better terms with the other farmers
than before. It happened that there was in the yard a pile of timber which
had been stacked there ten years earlier when a beech spinney was cleared.
It was well seasoned, and Whymper had advised Napoleon to sell it; both Mr.
Pilkington and Mr. Frederick were anxious to buy it. Napoleon was hesitating
between the two, unable to make up his mind. It was noticed that whenever he
seemed on the point of coming to an agreement with Frederick, Snowball was
declared to be in hiding at Foxwood, while, when he inclined toward
Pilkington, Snowball was said to be at Pinchfield.
Suddenly, early in the spring, an alarming thing was discovered. Snowball
was secretly frequenting the farm by night! The animals were so disturbed
that they could hardly sleep in their stalls. Every night, it was said, he
came creeping in under cover of darkness and performed all kinds of mischief.
He stole the corn, he upset the milk-pails, he broke the eggs, he trampled
the seedbeds, he gnawed the bark off the fruit trees. Whenever anything went
wrong it became usual to attribute it to Snowball. If a window was broken or
a drain was blocked up, someone was certain to say that Snowball had come in
the night and done it, and when the key of the store-shed was lost, the whole
farm was convinced that Snowball had thrown it down the well. Curiously
enough, they went on believing this even after the mislaid key was found
under a sack of meal. The cows declared unanimously that Snowball had crept
into their stalls and milked them in their sleep. The rats, which had been
troublesome that winter, were also said to be in league with Snowball.
Napoleon decreed that there should be a full investigation into Snowball's
activities. With his dogs in attendance he set out and made a careful tour
of inspection of the farm buildings, which, he said, he could detect by the
smell. He snuffed in every corner, in the barn, in the cow-shed, in the hen-
houses, in the vegetable garden, and found traces of Snowball almost
everywhere. He would put his snout to the ground, give several deep sniffs,
and exclaim in a terrible voice, "Snowball! He has been here! I can smell
him distinctly!" and at the word "Snowball" all the dogs let out blood-
curdling growls and showed their side teeth.
The animals were thoroughly frightened. It seemed to them as though Snowball
were some kind of invisible influence, pervading the air about them and
menacing them with all kinds of dangers. In the evening Squealer called them
together, and with an alarmed expression on his face told them that he had
some serious news to report.
"Comrades!" cried Squealer, making little nervous skips, "a most terrible
thing has been discovered. Snowball has sold himself to Frederick of
Pinchfield Farm, who is even now plotting to attack us and take our farm away
from us! Snowball is to act as his guide when the attack begins. But there
worse than that. We had thought that Snowball's rebellion was caused simply
by his vanity and ambition. But we were wrong, comrades. Do you know what
the real reason was? Snowball was in league with Jones from the very start!
He was Jones's secret agent all the time. It has all been proved by
documents which he left behind him and which we have only just discovered.
To my mind this explains a great deal, comrades. Did we not see for
ourselves how he attempted--fortunately without success--to get us defeated
and destroyed at the Battle of the Cowshed?"
The animals were stupefied. This was a wickedness far outdoing Snowball's
destruction of the windmill. But it was some minutes before they could fully
take it in. They all remembered, or thought they remembered, how they had
seen Snowball charging ahead of them at the Battle of the Cowshed, how he had
rallied and encouraged them at every turn, and how he had not paused for an
instant even when the pellets from Jones's gun had wounded his back. At
first it was a little difficult to see how this fitted in with his being on
Jones's side. Even Boxer, who seldom asked questions, was puzzled. He lay
down, tucked his fore hoofs beneath him, shut his eyes, and with a hard
effort managed to formulate his thoughts.
"I do not believe that," he said. "Snowball fought bravely at the Battle of
the Cowshed. I saw him myself. Did we not give him 'Animal Hero, First
Class,' immediately afterwards?"
"That was our mistake, comrade. For we know now--it is all written down in
the secret documents that we have found--that in reality he was trying to
lure us to our doom."
"But he was wounded," said Boxer. "We all saw him running with blood."
"That was part of the arrangement!" cried Squealer. "Jones's shot only
grazed him. I could show you this in his own writing, if you were able to
read it. The plot was for Snowball, at the critical moment, to give the
signal for flight and leave the field to the enemy. And he very nearly
succeeded--I will even say, comrades, he _would_ have succeeded if it had not
been for our heroic Leader, Comrade Napoleon. Do you not remember how, just
at the moment when Jones and his men had got inside the yard, Snowball
suddenly turned and fled, and many animals followed him? And do you not
remember, too, that it was just at that moment, when panic was spreading and
all seemed lost, that Comrade Napoleon sprang forward with a cry of 'Death to
Humanity!' and sank his teeth in Jones's leg? Surely you remember _that_,
comrades?" exclaimed Squealer, frisking from side to side.
Now when Squealer described the scene so graphically, it seemed to the
animals that they did remember it. At any rate, they remembered that at the
critical moment of the battle Snowball had turned to flee. But Boxer was
still a little uneasy.
"I do not believe that Snowball was a traitor at the beginning," he said
finally. "What he has done since is different. But I believe that at the
Battle of the Cowshed he was a good comrade."
"Our Leader, Comrade Napoleon," announced Squealer, speaking very slowly and
firmly, "has stated categorically--categorically, comrade--that Snowball was
Jones's agent from the very beginning--yes, and from long before the
Rebellion was ever thought of."
"Ah, that is different!" said Boxer. "If Comrade Napoleon says it, it must
be right."
"That is the true spirit, comrade!" cried Squealer, but it was noticed he
cast a very ugly look at Boxer with his little twinkling eyes. He turned to
go, then paused and added impressively: "I warn every animal on this farm to
keep his eyes very wide open. For we have reason to think that some of
Snowball's secret agents are lurking among us at this moment!"
Four days later, in the late afternoon, Napoleon ordered all the animals to
assemble in the yard. When they were all gathered together, Napoleon emerged
from the farmhouse, wearing both his medals (for he had recently awarded
himself "Animal Hero, First Class," and "Animal Hero, Second Class"), with
his nine huge dogs frisking round him and uttering growls that sent shivers
down all the animal's spines. They all cowered silently in their places,
seeming to know in advance that some terrible thing was about to happen.
Napoleon stood sternly surveying his audience; then he uttered a high-pitched
whimper. Immediately the dogs bounded forward, seized four of the pigs by
the ear and dragged them, squealing with pain and terror, to Napoleon's feet.
The pigs' ears were bleeding, the dogs had tasted blood, and for a few
moments they appeared to go quite mad. To the amazement of everybody, three
of them flung themselves upon Boxer. Boxer saw them coming and put out his
great hoof, caught a dog in mid-air, and pinned him to the ground. The dog
shrieked for mercy and the other two fled with their tails between their
legs. Boxer looked at Napoleon to know whether he should crush the dog to
death or let it go. Napoleon appeared to change countenance, and sharply
ordered Boxer to let the dog go, whereat Boxer lifted his hoof, and the dog
slunk away, bruised and howling.
Presently the tumult died down. The four pigs waited, trembling, with guilt
written on every line of their countenances. Napoleon now called upon them
to confess their crimes. They were the same four pigs as had protested when
Napoleon abolished the Sunday Meetings. Without any further prompting they
confessed that they had been secretly in touch with Snowball ever since his
expulsion, that they had collaborated with him in destroying the windmill,
and that they had entered into an agreement with him to hand over Animal Farm
to Mr. Frederick. They added that Snowball had privately admitted to them
that he had been Jones's secret agent for years past. When they had finished
their confession, the dogs promptly tore their throats out, and in a terrible
voice Napoleon demanded whether any other animal had anything to confess.
The three hens who had been the ringleaders in the attempted rebellion over
the eggs now came forward and stated that Snowball had appeared to them in a
dream and incited them to disobey Napoleon's orders. They, too, were
slaughtered. Then a goose came forward and confessed to having secreted six
ears of corn during the last year's harvest and eaten them in the night.
Then a sheep confessed to having urinated in the drinking pool--urged to do
this, so she said, by Snowball--and two other sheep confessed to having
murdered an old ram, an especially devoted follower of Napoleon, by chasing
him round and round a bonfire when he was suffering from a cough. They were
all slain on the spot. And so the tale of confessions and executions went
on, until there was a pile of corpses lying before Napoleon's feet and the
air was heavy with the smell of blood, which had been unknown there since the
expulsion of Jones.
When it was all over, the remaining animals, except for the pigs and dogs,
crept away in a body. They were shaken and miserable. They did not know
which was more shocking--the treachery of the animals who had leagued
themselves with Snowball, or the cruel retribution they had just witnessed.
In the old days there had often been scenes of bloodshed equally terrible,
but it seemed to all of them it was far worse now that it was happening among
themselves. Since Jones had left the farm, until today, no animal had killed
another animal. Not even a rat had been killed. They had made their way on
to the little knoll where the half-finished windmill stood, and with one
accord they all lay down as though huddling together for warmth--Clover,
Muriel, Benjamin, the cows, the sheep, and a whole flock of geese and hens--
everyone, indeed, except the cat, who had suddenly disappeared just before
Napoleon ordered the animals to assemble. For some time nobody spoke. Only
Boxer remained on his feet. He fidgeted to and fro, swishing his long black
tail against his sides and occasionally uttering a little whinny of surprise.
Finally he said:
"I do not understand it. I would not have believed that such things could
happen on our farm. It must be due to some fault in ourselves. The
solution, as I see it, is to work harder. From now onwards I shall get up a
full hour earlier in the mornings."
And he moved off at his lumbering trot and made for the quarry. Having got
there, he collected two successive loads of stone and dragged them down to
the windmill before retiring for the night.
The animals huddled about Clover, not speaking. The knoll where they were
lying gave them a wide prospect across the countryside. Most of Animal Farm
was within their view--the long pasture stretching down to the main road, the
hayfield, the spinney, the drinking pool, the ploughed fields where the young
wheat was thick and green, and the red roofs of the farm buildings with the
smoke curling from the chimneys. It was a clear spring evening. The grass
and the bursting hedges were gilded by the level rays of the sun. Never had
the farm--and with a kind of surprise they remembered that it was their own
farm, every inch of it their own property--appeared to the animals so
desirable a place. As Clover looked down the hillside her eyes filled with
tears. If she could have spoken her thoughts, it would have been to say that
this was not what they had aimed at when they had set out themselves years
ago to work for the overthrow of the human race. These scenes of terror and
slaughter were not what they had looked forward to on that night when old
Major first stirred them to rebellion. If she herself had had any picture of
the future, it had been of a society of animals set free from hunger and the
whip, all equal, each working to his capacity, the strong protecting the
weak, as she had protected the lost brood of ducklings with her foreleg on
the night of Major's speech. Instead--she did not know why--they had come to
a time when no one dared speak his mind, when fierce, growling dogs roamed
everywhere, and when you had to watch your comrades torn to pieces after
confessing to shocking crimes. There was no thought of rebellion or
disobedience in her mind. She knew that, even as things were, they were far
better off than they had been in the days of Jones, and that before all else
it was needful to prevent the return of the human beings. Whatever happened
she would remain faithful, work hard, carry out the orders that were given to
her, and accept the leadership of Napoleon. But still, it was not for this
that she and all the other animals had hoped and toiled. It was not for this
that they had built the windmill and faced the bullets of Jones's gun. Such
were her thoughts, though she lacked the words to express them.
At last, feeling this to be in some way a substitute for the words she was
unable to find, she began to sing 'Beasts of England'. The other animals
sitting round her took it up, and they sang it three times over--very
tunefully, but slowfully and mournfully, in a way they had never sung it
before.
They had just finished singing it for the third time when Squealer, attended
by two dogs, approached them with the air of having something important to
say. He announced that, by a special decree of Comrade Napoleon, 'Beasts of
England' had been abolished. From now onwards it was forbidden to sing it.
The animals were taken aback.
"Why?" cried Muriel.
"It's no longer needed, comrade," said Squealer stiffly. 'Beasts of England'
was the song of the Rebellion. But the Rebellion is now completed. The
execution of the traitors this afternoon was the final act. The enemy both
external and internal has been defeated. In 'Beasts of England' we expressed
our longing for a better society in days to come. But that society has now
been established. Clearly this song has no longer any purpose."
Frightened though they were, some of the animals might possibly have
protested, but at this moment the sheep set up their usual bleating of "Four
legs good, two legs bad," which went on for several minutes and put an end to
the discussion.
So 'Beasts of England' was heard no more. In its place, Minimus, the poet,
had composed another song which began:
Animal Farm, Animal Farm
Never through me shalt thou come to harm!
and this was sung every Sunday morning after the hoisting of the flag. But
somehow the words nor the tune ever seemed to the animals to come up to
'Beasts of England'.
Chapter VIII:
A few days later, when the terror caused by the executions had died down,
some of the animals remembered--or thought they remembered--that the Sixth
Commandment decreed "No animal shall kill any other animal." And though no
one cared to mention it in the hearing of the pigs or the dogs, it was felt
that the killings which had taken place did not square with this. Clover
asked Benjamin to read her the Sixth Commandment, and when Benjamin, as
usual, said that he refused to meddle in such matters, she fetched Muriel.
Muriel read the Commandment for her. It ran: "No animal shall kill any
other animal _without cause_." Somehow or other, the last two words had
slipped out of the animals' memory. But they saw now that the Commandment
had not been violated; for clearly there was good reason for killing the
traitors who had leagued themselves with Snowball.
Throughout the year the animals worked even harder than they had worked in
the previous year. To rebuild the windmill, with walls twice as thick as
before, and to finish it by the appointed date, together with the regular
work of the farm, was a tremendous labour. There were times when it seemed
to the animals that they worked longer hours and fed no better than they had
done in Jones's day. On Sunday mornings Squealer, holding down a long strip
of paper with his trotter, would read out to them lists of figures proving
that the production of every class of foodstuff had increased by two hundred
per cent, three hundred per cent, or five hundred per cent, as the case might
be. The animals saw no reason to disbelieve him, especially as they could no
longer remember very clearly what conditions had been like before the
Rebellion. All the same, there were days when they felt that they would
sooner have had less figures and more food.
All orders were now issued through Squealer or one of the other pigs.
Napoleon himself was not seen in public as often as once in a fortnight.
When he did appear, he was attended not only by his retinue of dogs but by a
black cockerel who marched in front of him and acted as a kind of trumpeter,
letting out a loud "cock-a-doodle-doo" before Napoleon spoke. Even in the
farmhouse, it was said, Napoleon inhabited separate apartments from the
others. He took his meals alone, with two dogs to wait upon him, and always
ate from the Crown Derby dinner service which had been in the glass cupboard
in the drawing room. It was also announced that the gun would be fired every
year on Napoleon's birthday, as well as on the other two anniversaries.
Napoleon was now never spoken of simply as "Napoleon." He was always
referred to in formal style as "our Leader, Comrade Napoleon," and the pigs
liked to invent for him such titles as Father of All Animals, Terror of
Mankind, Protector of the Sheep-fold, Ducklings' Friend and the like. In his
speeches, Squealer would talk with the tears rolling down his cheeks of
Napoleon's wisdom, the goodness of his heart, and the deep love he bore to
all animals everywhere, even and especially the unhappy animals who still
lived in ignorance and slavery on other farms. It had become usual to give
Napoleon the credit for every successful achievement and every stroke of good
fortune. You would often hear one hen remark to another, "Under the guidance
of our Leader, Comrade Napoleon, I have laid five eggs in six days"; or two
cows, enjoying a drink at the pool, would exclaim, "Thanks to the leadership
of Comrade Napoleon, how excellent this water tastes!" The general feeling
on the farm was well expressed in a poem entitled "Comrade Napoleon", which
was composed by Minimus and which ran as follows:
Friend of fatherless!
Fountain of happiness!
Lord of the swill-bucket! Oh, how my soul is on
Fire when I gaze at thy
Calm and commanding eye,
Like the sun in the sky,
Comrade Napoleon!
Thou are the giver of
All that thy creatures love,
Full belly twice a day, clean straw to roll upon;
Every beast great or small
Sleeps at peace in his stall,
Thou watchest over all,
Comrade Napoleon!
Had I a sucking-pig,
Ere he had grown as big
Even as a pint bottle or as a rolling-pin,
He should have learned to be
Faithful and true to thee,
Yes, his first squeak should be
"Comrade Napoleon!"
Napoleon approved of this poem and caused it to be inscribed on the wall of
the big barn, at the opposite end from the Seven Commandments. It was
surmounted by a portrait of Napoleon, in profile, executed by Squealer in
white paint.
Meanwhile, through the agency of Whymper, Napoleon was engaged in complicated
negotiations with Frederick and Pilkington. The pile of timber was still
unsold. Of the two, Frederick was the more anxious to get hold of it, but he
would not offer a reasonable price. At the same time there were renewed
rumours that Frederick and his men were plotting to attack Animal Farm and to
destroy the windmill, the building of which had aroused furious jealousy in
him. Snowball was known to be still skulking on Pinchfield Farm. In the
middle of the summer the animals were alarmed to hear that the three hens had
come forward and confessed that, inspired by Snowball, they had entered into
a plot to murder Napoleon. They were executed immediately, and fresh
precautions for Napoleon's safety were taken. Four dogs guarded his bed at
night, one at each corner, and a young pig named Pinkeye was given the task
of tasting all his food before he ate it, lest he be poisoned.
At about the same time it was given out that Napoleon had arranged to sell
the pile of timber to Mr. Pilkington; he was also going to enter into a
regular agreement for the exchange of certain products between Animal Farm
and Foxwood. The relations between Napoleon and Pilkington, though they were
only conducted through Whymper, were now almost friendly. The animals
distrusted Pilkington, as a human being, but greatly preferred him to
Frederick, whom they both feared and hated. As the summer wore on, and the
windmill neared completion, the rumours of an impending treacherous attack
grew stronger and stronger. Frederick, it was said, intended to bring
against them twenty men all armed with guns, and he had already bribed the
magistrates and police, so that if he could once get hold of the title-deeds
of Animal Farm they would ask no questions. Moreover, terrible stories were
leaking out from Pinchfield about the cruelties that Frederick practised upon
his animals. He had flogged an old horse to death, he starved his cows, he
had killed a dog by throwing it into the furnace, he amused himself in the
evenings by making cocks fight with splinters of razor-blade tied to their
spurs. The animals' blood boiled with rage when they heard of these things
being done to their comrades, and sometimes they clamoured to be allowed to
go out in a body and attack Pinchfield Farm, drive out the humans, and set
the animals free. Bur Squealer counselled them to avoid rash actions and
trust in Comrade Napoleon's strategy.
Nevertheless, feeling against Frederick continued to run high. One Sunday
morning Napoleon appeared in the barn and explained that he had never at any
time contemplated selling the pile of timber to Frederick; he considered it
beneath his dignity, he said, to have dealings with scoundrels of that
description. The pigeons who were still sent out to spread tidings of the
Rebellion were forbidden to set foot anywhere on Foxwood, and were also
ordered to drop their former slogan of "Death to Humanity" in favour of
"Death to Frederick." In the late summer yet another of Snowball's
machinations was laid bare. The wheat crop was full of weeds, and it was
discovered that on one of his nocturnal visits Snowball had mixed weed seeds
with the seed corn. A gander who had been privy to the plot had confessed
his guilt to Squealer and immediately committed suicide by swallowing deadly
nightshade berries. The animals now also learned that Snowball had never--as
many of them had believed hitherto--received the order of "Animal Hero, First
Class." This was merely a legend which had been spread some time after the
Battle of the Cowshed by Snowball himself. So far from being decorated, he
had been censured for showing cowardice in the battle. Once again some of
the animals heard this with a certain bewilderment, but Squealer was soon
able to convince them that their memories had been at fault.
In the autumn, by a tremendous, exhausting effort--for the harvest had to be
gathered at almost the same time--the windmill was finished. The machinery
had still to be installed, and Whymper was negotiating the purchase of it,
but the structure was completed. In the teeth of every difficulty, in spite
of inexperience, of primitive implements, of bad luck and of Snowball's
treachery, the work had been finished punctually to the very day! Tired out
but proud, the animals walked round and round their masterpiece, which
appeared even more beautiful in their eyes than when it had been built the
first time. Moreover, the walls were twice as thick as before. Nothing
short of explosives would lay them low this time! And when they thought of
how they had laboured, and the enourmous difference that would be made in
their lives when the sails were turning and the dynamos running--when they
thought of all this, their tiredness forsook them and they gambolled round
and round the windmill, uttering cries of triumph. Napoleon himself,
attended by his dogs and his cockerel, came down to inspect the completed
work; he personally congratulated the animals on their achievement, and
announced that the mill would be named Napoleon Mill.
Two days later the animals were called together for a special meeting in the
barn. They were struck dumb with surprise when Napoleon announced that he
had sold the pile of timber to Frederick. Tomorrow Frederick's wagons would
arrive and begin carting it away. Throughout the whole period of seeming
friendship with Pilkington, Napoleon had really been in secret agreement with
Frederick.
All relations with Foxwood had been broken off; insulting messages had been
sent to Pilkington. The pigeons had been told to avoid Pinchfield Farm and
to alter their slogan from "Death to Frederick" to "Death to Pilkington." At
the same time Napoleon assured the animals that the stories of an impending
attack on Animal Farm were completely untrue, and that the tales about
Frederick's cruelty to his own animals had been greatly exaggerated. All
these rumours had probably originated with Snowball and his agents. It now
appeared that Snowball was not, after all, hiding on Pinchfield Farm, and in
fact had never been there in his life: he was living--in considerable
luxury, so it was said--at Foxwood, and had in reality been a pensioner of
Pilkington for years past.
The pigs were in ecstasies over Napoleon's cunning. By seeming to be
friendly with Pilkington he had forced Frederick to raise his price by twelve
pounds. But the superior quality of Napoleon's mind, said Squealer, was
shown in the fact that he trusted nobody, not even Frederick. Frederick had
wanted to pay for the timber with something called a cheque, which, it
seemed, was a piece of paper with a promise to pay written upon it. But
Napoleon was too clever for him. He had demanded payment in real five-pound
notes, which were to be handed over before the timber was removed. Already
Frederick had paid up; and the sum he had paid was just enough to buy the
machinery for the windmill.
Meanwhile the timber was being carted away at high speed. When it was all
gone, another special meeting was held in the barn for all the animals to
inspect Frederick's bank-notes. Smiling beatifically and wearing both his
decorations, Napoleon reposed on a bed of straw on the platform, with the
money at his side, neatly piled on a china dish from the farmhouse kitchen.
The animals filed slowly past, and each gazed his fill. And Boxer put out
his nose to sniff at the bank-notes, and the flimsy white things stirred and
rustled in his breath.
Three days later there was a terrible hullabaloo. Whymper, his face deadly
pale, came racing up the path on his bicycle, flung it down in the yard and
rushed straight into the farmhouse. The next moment a choking roar of rage
sounded from Napoleon's apartments. The news of what had happened sped round
the farm like wildfire. The bank-notes were forgeries! Frederick had got
the timber for nothing!
Napoleon called the animals together immediately and in a terrible voice
pronounced the death sentence on Frederick. When captured, he said,
Frederick should be boiled alive. At the same time he warned them that after
this treacherous deed the worst was to be expected. Frederick and his men
might make their long-expected attack at any moment. Sentinels were placed
at all the approaches to the farm. In additions, four pigeons were sent to
Foxwood with a conciliatory message, which it was hoped might re-establish
good relations with Pilkington.
The very next morning the attack came. The animals were at breakfast when
the look-outs came racing in with the news that Frederick and his followers
had already come through the five-barred gate. Boldly enough the animals
sallied forth to meet them, but this time they did not have the easy victory
that they had had in the Battle of the Cowshed. There were fifteen men, with
half a dozen guns between them, and they opened fire as soon as they got
within fifty yards. The animals could not face the terrible explosions and
the stinging pellets, and in spite of the efforts of Napoleon and Boxer to
rally them, they were soon driven back. A number of them were already
wounded. They took refuge in the farm buildings and peeped cautiously out
from chinks and knot-holes. The whole of the big pasture, including the
windmill, was in the hands of the enemy. For the moment even Napoleon seemed
at a loss. He paced up and down without a word, his tail rigid and
twitching. Wistful glances were sent in the direction of Foxwood. If
Pilkington and his men would help them, the day might yet be won. But at
this moment the four pigeons, who had been sent out on the day before,
returned, one of them bearing a scrap of paper from Pilkington. On it was
pencilled the words: "Serves you right."
Meanwhile Frederick and his men had halted about the windmill. The animals
watched them, and a murmur of dismay went round. Two of the men had produced
a crowbar and a sledge hammer. They were going to knock the windmill down.
"Impossible!" cried Napoleon. "We have built the walls far too thick for
that. They could not knock it down in a week. Courage, comrades!"
But Benjamin was watching the movements of the men intently. The two with
the hammer and the crowbar were drilling a hole near the base of the
windmill. Slowly, and with an air almost of amusement, Benjamin nodded his
long muzzle.
"I thought so," he said. "Do you not see what they are doing? In another
moment they are going to pack blasting powder into that hole."
Terrified, the animals waited. It was impossible now to venture out of the
shelter of the buildings. After a few minutes the men were seen to be
running in all directions. Then there was a deafening roar. The pigeons
swirled into the air, and all the animals, except Napoleon, flung themselves
flat on their bellies and hit their faces. When they got up again, a huge
cloud of black smoke was hanging where the windmill had been. Slowly the
breeze drifted it away. The windmill had ceased to exist!
At this sight the animals' courage returned to them. The fear and despair
they had felt a moment earlier were drowned in their rage against this vile,
contemptible act. A mighty cry for vengeance went up, and without waiting
for further orders they charged forth in a body and made straight for the
enemy. This time they did not heed the cruel pellets that swept over them
like hail. It was a savage, bitter battle. The men fired again and again,
and, when the animals got to close quarters, lashed out with their sticks and
their heavy boots. A cow, three sheep, and two geese were killed, and nearly
everyone was wounded. Even Napoleon, who was directing operations from the
rear, had the tip of his tail chipped by a pellet. But the men did not go
unscathed, either. Three of them had their heads broken by blows from
Boxer's hoofs; another was gored in the belly by a cow's horn; another had
his trousers nearly torn off by Jessie and Bluebell. And when the nine dogs
of Napoleon's own bodyguard, whom he had instructed to make a detour under
cover of the hedge, suddenly appeared on the men's flank, baying ferociously,
panic overtook them. They saw that they were in danger of being surrounded.
Frederick shouted to his men to get out while the going was good, and the
next moment the cowardly enemy was running for dear life. The animals chased
them right down to the bottom of the field, and got in some last kicks at
them as they forced their way through the thorn hedge.
They had won, but they were weary and bleeding. Slowly, they began to limp
back towards the farm. The sight of their dead comrades stretched upon the
grass moved some of them to tears. And for a little while they halted in
sorrowful silence at the place where the windmill had once stood. Yes, it
was gone; almost the last trace of their labour was gone! Even the
foundations were partially destroyed. And in rebuilding it they could not
this time, as before, make use of the fallen stones. This time the stones
had vanished too. The force of the explosion had flung them to distances of
hundreds of yards. It was as though the windmill had never been.
As they approached the farm Squealer, who had unaccountably been absent
during the fighting came skipping towards them, whisking his tail and beaming
with satisfaction. And the animals heard, from the direction of the farm
buildings, the solemn booming of a gun.
"What is that gun firing for?" said Boxer.
"To celebrate our victory!" cried Squealer.
"What victory?" said Boxer. His knees were bleeding, he had lost a shoe and
split his hoof, and a dozen pellets had lodged themselves in his hind leg.
"What victory, comrade? Have we not driven the enemy off our soil--the
sacred soil of Animal Farm?"
"But they have destroyed the windmill. And we had worked on it for two
years!"
"What matter? We will build another windmill. We will build six windmills
if we feel like it. You do not appreciate, comrade, the might thing that we
have done. The enemy was in occupation of this very ground that we stand
upon. And now--thanks to the leadership of Comrade Napoleon--we have won
every inch of it back again!"
"Then we have won back what we had before," said Boxer.
"That is our victory," said Squealer.
They limped into the yard. The pellets under the skin of Boxer's leg smarted
painfully. He saw ahead of him the heavy labour of rebuilding the windmill
from the foundations, and already in imagination he braced himself for the
task. Bur for the first time it occurred to him that he was eleven years old
and that perhaps his great muscles were not quite what they had once been.
But when the animals saw the green flag flying, and heard the gun firing
again--seven times it was fired in all--and heard the speech that Napoleon
made, congratulating them on their conduct, it did seem to them after all
that they had won a great victory. The animals slain in the battle were
given a solemn funeral. Boxer and Clover pulled the wagon which served as a
hearse, and Napoleon himself walked at the head of the procession. Two whole
days were given over to celebrations. There were songs, speeches, and more
firing of the gun, and a special gift of an apple was bestowed on every
animal, with two ounces of corn for each bird and three biscuits for each
dog. It was announced that the battle would be called the Battle of the
Windmill, and that Napoleon had created a new decoration, the Order of the
Green Banner, which he had conferred upon himself. In the general rejoicings
the unfortunate affair of the banknotes was forgotten.
It was a few days later than this that the pigs came upon a case of whisky in
the cellars of the farmhouse. It had been overlooked at the time when the
house was first occupied. That night there came from the farmhouse the sound
of loud singing, in which, to everyone's surprise, the strains of 'Beasts of
England' were mixed up. At about half-past nine Napoleon, wearing an old
bowler hat of Mr. Jones's, was distinctly seen to emerge from the back door,
gallop rapidly round the yard, and disappear indoors again. Bur in the
morning a deep silence hung over the farmhouse. Not a pig appeared to be
stirring. It was nearly nine o'clock when Squealer made his appearance,
walking slowly and dejectedly, his eyes dull, his tail hanging limply behind
him, and with every appearance of being seriously ill. He called the animals
together and told them that he had a terrible piece of news to impart.
Comrade Napoleon was dying!
A cry of lamentation went up. Straw was laid down outside the doors of the
farmhouse, and the animals walked on tiptoe. With tears in their eyes they
asked one another what they should do if their Leader were taken away from
them. A rumour went round that Snowball had after all contrived to introduce
poison into Napoleon's food. At eleven o'clock Squealer came out to make
another announcement. As his last act upon earth, Comrade Napoleon had
pronounced a solemn decree: the drinking of alcohol was to be punished by
death.
By the evening, however, Napoleon appeared to be somewhat better, and the
following morning Squealer was able to tell them that he was well on the way
to recovery. By the evening of that day Napoleon was back at work, and on
the next day it was learned that he had instructed Whymper to purchase in
Willingdon some booklets on brewing and distilling. A week later Napoleon
gave orders that the small paddock beyond the orchard, which it had
previously been intended to set aside as a grazing-ground for animals who
were past work, was to be ploughed up. It was given out that the pasture was
exhausted and needed re-seeding; but it soon became known that Napoleon
intended to sow it with barley.
About this time there occurred a strange incident which hardly anyone was
able to understand. One night at about twelve o'clock there was a loud crash
in the yard, and the animals rushed out of their stalls. It was a moonlit
night. At the foot of the end wall of the big barn, where the Seven
Commandments were written, there lay a ladder broken in two pieces.
Squealer, temporarily stunned, was sprawling beside it, and near at hand
there lay a lantern, a paint-brush, and an overturned pot of white paint.
The dogs immediately made a ring round Squealer, and escorted him back to the
farmhouse as soon as he was able to walk. None of the animals could form any
idea as to what this meant, except old Benjamin, who nodded his muzzle with
a knowing air, and seemed to understand, but would say nothing.
But a few days later Muriel, reading over the Seven Commandments to herself,
noticed that there was yet another of them which the animals had remembered
wrong. They had thought the Fifth Commandment was "No animal shall drink
alcohol," but there were two words that they had forgotten. Actually the
Commandment read: "No animal shall drink alcohol _to excess_"
Chapter IX:
Boxer's split hoof was a long time in healing. They had started the
rebuilding of the windmill the day after the victory celebrations were ended.
Boxer refused to take even a day off work, and made it a point of honour not
to let it be seen that he was in pain. In the evenings he would admit
privately to Clover that the hoof troubled him a great deal. Clover treated
the hoof with poultices of herbs which she prepared by chewing them, and both
she and Benjamin urged Boxer to work less hard. "A horse's lungs do not last
for ever," she said to him. But Boxer would not listen. He had, he said,
only one real ambition left--to see the windmill well under way before he
reached the age for retirement.
At the beginning, when the laws of Animal Farm were first formulated, the
retiring age had been fixed for horses and pigs at twelve, for cows at
fourteen, for dogs at nine, for sheep at seven, and for hens and geese at
five. Liberal old-age pensions had been agreed upon. As yet no animal had
actually retired on pension, but of late the subject had been discussed more
and more. Now that the small field beyond the orchard had been set aside for
barley, it was rumoured that a corner of the large pasture was to be fenced
off and turned into a grazing-ground for superannuated animals. For a horse,
it was said, the pension would be five pounds of corn a day and, in winter,
fifteen pounds of hay, with a carrot or possibly an apple on public holidays.
Boxer's twelfth birthday was due in the late summer of the following year.
Meanwhile life was hard. The winter was as cold as the last one had been,
and food was even shorter. Once again all rations were reduced, except those
of the pigs and the dogs. A too rigid equality in rations, Squealer
explained, would have been contrary to the principles of Animalism. In any
case he had no difficulty in proving to the other animals that they were
_not_ in reality short of food, whatever the appearances might be. For the
time being, certainly, it had been found necessary to make a readjustment of
rations (Squealer always spoke of it as a "readjustment," never as a
"reduction"), but in comparison with the days of Jones, the improvement was
enormous. Reading out the figures in a shrill, rapid voice, he proved to
them in detail that they had more oats, more hay, more turnips than they had
had in Jones's day, that they worked shorter hours, that their drinking water
was of better quality, that they lived longer, that a larger proportion of
their young ones survived infancy, and that they had more straw in their
stalls and suffered less from fleas. The animals believed every word of it.
Truth to tell, Jones and all he stood for had almost faded out of their
memories. They knew that life nowadays was harsh and bare, that they were
often hungry and often cold, and that they were usually working when they
were not asleep. But doubtless it had been worse in the old days. They were
glad to believe so. Besides, in those days they had been slaves and now they
were free, and that made all the difference, as Squealer did not fail to
point out.
There were many more mouths to feed now. In the autumn the four sows had all
littered about simultaneously, producing thirty-one young pigs between them.
The young pigs were piebald, and as Napoleon was the only boar on the farm,
it was possible to guess at their parentage. It was announced that later,
when bricks and timber had been purchased, a schoolroom would be built in the
farmhouse garden. For the time being, the young pigs were given their
instruction by Napoleon himself in the farmhouse kitchen. They took their
exercise in the garden, and were discouraged from playing with the other
young animals. About this time, too, it was laid down as a rule that when a
pig and any other animal met on the path, the other animal must stand aside:
and also that all pigs, of whatever degree, were to have the privilege of
wearing green ribbons on their tails on Sundays.
The farm had had a fairly successful year, but was still short of money.
There were the bricks, sand, and lime for the schoolroom to be purchased, and
it would also be necessary to begin saving up again for the machinery for the
windmill. Then there were lamp oil and candles for the house, sugar for
Napoleon's own table (he forbade this to the other pigs, on the ground that
it made them fat), and all the usual replacements such as tools, nails,
string, coal, wire, scrap-iron, and dog biscuits. A stump of hay and part of
the potato crop were sold off, and the contract for eggs was increased to six
hundred a week, so that that year the hens barely hatched enough chicks to
keep their numbers at the same level. Rations, reduced in December, were
reduced again in February, and lanterns in the stalls were forbidden to save
oil. But the pigs seemed comfortable enough, and in fact were putting on
weight if anything. One afternoon in late February a warm, rich, appetising
scent, such as the animals had never smelt before, wafted itself across the
yard from the little brew-house, which had been disused in Jones's time, and
which stood beyond the kitchen. Someone said it was the smell of cooking
barley. The animals sniffed the air hungrily and wondered whether a warm
mash was being prepared for their supper. But no warm mash appeared, and on
the following Sunday it was announced that from now onwards all barley would
be reserved for the pigs. The field beyond the orchard had already been sown
with barley. And the news soon leaked out that every pig was now receiving
a ration of a pint of beer daily, with half a gallon for Napoleon himself,
which was always served to him in the Crown Derby soup tureen.
But if there were hardships to be borne, they were partly offset by the fact
that life nowadays had a greater dignity than it had before. There were more
songs, more speeches, more processions. Napoleon had commanded that once a
week there should be held something called a Spontaneous Demonstration, the
object of which was to celebrate the struggles and triumphs of Animal Farm.
At the appointed time the animals would leave their work and march round the
precincts of the farm in military formation, with the pigs leading, then the
horses, then the cows, then the sheep, and then all the poultry. The dogs
flanked the procession and at the head of all marched Napoleon's black
cockerel. Boxer and Clover always carried between them a green banner marked
with the hoof and the horn and the caption, "Long live Comrade Napoleon!"
Afterwards there were recitations of poems composed in Napoleon's honour, and
a speech by Squealer giving particulars of the latest increases in the
production of foodstuffs, and on occasion a shot was fired from the gun. The
sheep were the greatest devotees of the Spontaneous Demonstration, and if
anyone complained (as a few animals sometimes did, when no pigs or dogs were
near) that they wasted time and meant a lot of standing about in the cold,
the sheep were sure to silence him with a tremendous bleating of "Four legs
good, two legs bad!" But by and large the animals enjoyed these
celebrations. They found it comforting to be reminded that, after all, they
were truly their own masters and that the work they did was for their own
benefit. So that, what with the songs, the processions, Squealer's lists of
figures, the thunder of the gun, the crowing of the cockerel, and the
fluttering of the flag, they were able to forget that their bellies were
empty, at least part of the time.
In April, Animal Farm was proclaimed a Republic, and it became necessary to
elect a President. There was only one candidate, Napoleon, who was elected
unanimously. On the same day it was given out that fresh documents had been
discovered which revealed further details about Snowball's complicity with
Jones. It now appeared that Snowball had not, as the animals had previously
imagined, merely attempted to lose the Battle of the Cowshed by means of a
stratagem, but had been openly fighting on Jones's side. In fact, it was he
who had actually been the leader of the human forces, and had charged into
battle with the words "Long live Humanity!" on his lips. The wounds on
Snowball's back, which a few of the animals still remembered to have seen,
had been inflicted by Napoleon's teeth.
In the middle of the summer Moses the raven suddenly reappeared on the farm,
after an absence of several years. He was quite unchanged, still did no
work, and talked in the same strain as ever about Sugarcandy Mountain. He
would perch on a stump, flap his black wings, and talk by the hour to anyone
who would listen. "Up there, comrades," he would say solemnly, pointing to
the sky with his large beak--"up there, just on the other side of that dark
cloud that you can see--there it lies, Sugarcandy Mountain, that happy
country where we poor animals shall rest for ever from our labours!" He even
claimed to have been there on one of his higher flights, and to have seen the
everlasting fields of clover and the linseed cake and lump sugar growing on
the hedges. Many of the animals believed him. Their lives now, they
reasoned, were hungry and laborious; was it not right and just that a better
world should exist somewhere else? A thing that was difficult to determine
was the attitude of the pigs towards Moses. They all declared contemptuously
that his stories about Sugarcandy Mountain were lies, and yet they allowed
him to remain on the farm, not working, with an allowance of a gill of beer
a day.
After his hoof had healed up, Boxer worked harder than ever. Indeed, all the
animals worked like slaves that year. Apart from the regular work of the
farm, and the rebuilding of the windmill, there was the schoolhouse for the
young pigs, which was started in March. Sometimes the long hours on
insufficient food were hard to bear, but Boxer never faltered. In nothing
that he said or did was there any sign that his strength was not what it had
been. It was only his appearance that was a little altered; his hide was
less shiny than it had used to be, and his great haunches seemed to have
shrunken. The others said, "Boxer will pick up when the spring grass comes
on"; but the spring came and Boxer grew no fatter. Sometimes on the slope
leading to the top of the quarry, when he braced his muscles against the
weight of some vast boulder, it seemed that nothing kept him on his feet
except the will to continue. At such times his lips were seen to form the
words, "I will work harder"; he had no voice left. Once again Clover and
Benjamin warned him to take care of his health, but Boxer paid no attention.
His twelfth birthday was approaching. He did not care what happened so long
as a good store of stone was accumulated before he went on pension.
Late one evening in the summer, a sudden rumour ran round the farm that
something had happened to Boxer. He had gone out alone to drag a load of
stone down to the windmill. And sure enough the rumour was true. A few
minutes later two pigeons came racing in with the news: "Boxer has fallen!
He is lying on his side and can't get up!"
About half the animals on the farm rushed out to the knoll where the windmill
stood. There lay Boxer, between the shafts of the cart, his neck stretched
out, unable even to raise his head. His eyes were glazed, his sides matted
with sweat. A thin stream of blood had trickled out of his mouth. Clover
dropped to her knees at his side.
"Boxer!" she cried, "how are you?"
"It is my lung," said Boxer in a weak voice. "It does not matter. I think
you will be able to finish the windmill without me. There is a pretty good
store of stone accumulated. I had only another month to go in any case. To
tell you the truth, I had been looking forward to my retirement. And
perhaps, as Benjamin is growing old too, they will let him retire at the same
time and be a companion to me."
"We must get help at once," said Clover. "Run, somebody, and tell Squealer
what has happened."
All the other animals immediately raced back to the farmhouse to give
Squealer the news. Only Clover remained, and Benjamin, who lay down at
Boxer's side, and without speaking, kept the flies off him with his long
tail. After about a quarter of an hour Squealer appeared, full of sympathy
and concern. He said that Comrade Napoleon had learned with the very deepest
distress of this misfortune to one of the most loyal workers on the farm, and
was already making arrangements to send Boxer to be treated in the hospital
at Willingdon. The animals felt a little uneasy at this. Except for Mollie
and Snowball, no other animal had ever left the farm, and they did not like
to think of their sick comrade in the hands of human beings. However,
Squealer easily convinced them that the veterinary surgeon in Willingdon
could treat Boxer's case more satisfactorily than could be done on the farm.
And about half an hour later, when Boxer had somewhat recovered, he was with
difficulty got on to his feet, and managed to limp back to his stall, where
Clover and Benjamin had prepared a good bed of straw for him.
For the next two days Boxer remained in his stall. The pigs had sent out a
large bottle of pink medicine which they had found in the medicine chest in
the bathroom, and Clover administered it to Boxer twice a day after meals.
In the evenings she lay in his stall and talked to him, while Benjamin kept
the flies off him. Boxer professed not to be sorry for what had happened.
If he made a good recovery, he might expect to live another three years, and
he looked forward to the peaceful days that he would spend in the corner of
the big pasture. It would be the first time that he had had leisure time to
study and improve his mind. He intended, he said, to devote the rest of his
life to learning the remaining twenty-two letters of the alphabet.
However, Benjamin and Clover could only be with Boxer after working hours,
and it was in the middle of the day when the van came to take him away. The
animals were all at work weeding turnips under the supervision of a pig, when
they were astonished to see Benjamin come galloping from the direction of the
farm buildings, braying at the top of his voice. It was the first time that
they had ever seen Benjamin excited--indeed, it was the first time that
anyone had ever seen him gallop. "Quick, quick!" he shouted. "Come at once!
They're taking Boxer away!" Without waiting for orders from the pig, the
animals broke off work and raced back to the farm buildings. Sure enough,
there in the yard was a large closed van, drawn by two horses, with lettering
on its side and a sly-looking man in a low-crowned bowler hat sitting on the
driver's seat. And Boxer's stall was empty.
The animals crowded round the van. "Good-bye, Boxer!" they chorused, "good-
bye!"
"Fools! Fools!" shouted Benjamin, prancing round them and stamping the earth
with his small hoofs. "Fools! Do you not see what is written on the side of
that van?"
That gave the animals pause, and there was a hush. Muriel began to spell out
the words. But Benjamin pushed her aside and in the midst of a deadly
silence he read:
"'Alfred Simmonds, Horse Slaughterer and Glue Boiler, Willingdon. Dealer in
Hides and Bone-Meal. Kennels Supplied.' Do you not understand what that
means? They are taking Boxer to the knacker's!"
A cry of horror burst from all the animals. At this moment the man on the
box whipped up his horses and the van moved out of the yard at a smart trot.
All the animals followed, crying out at the tops of their voices. Clover
forced her way to the front. The van began to gather speed. Clover tried to
stir her stout limbs to a gallop and achieved a canter. "Boxer!" she cried.
"Boxer! Boxer! Boxer!" And just at this moment, as though he had heard the
uproar outside, Boxer's face, with the white stripe down his nose, appeared
at the small window at the back of the van.
"Boxer!" cried Clover in a terrible voice. "Boxer! Get out! Get out
quickly! They're taking you to your death!"
All the animals took up the cry of "Get out, Boxer, get out!" But the van
was already gathering speed and drawing away from them. It was uncertain
whether Boxer had understood what Clover had said. But a moment later his
face disappeared from the window and there was the sound of a tremendous
drumming of hoofs inside the van. He was trying to kick his way out. The
time had been when a few kicks from Boxer's hoofs would have smashed the van
to matchwood. But alas! his strength had left him; and in a few moments the
sound of drumming hoofs grew fainter and died away. In desperation the
animals began appealing to the two horses which drew the van to stop.
"Comrades, comrades!" they shouted. "Don't take your own brother to his
death!" But the stupid brutes, too ignorant to realise what was happening,
merely set back their ears and quickened their pace. Boxer's face did not
reappear at the window. Too late, someone thought of racing ahead and
shutting the five-barred gate; but in another moment the van was through it
and rapidly disappearing down the road. Boxer was never seen again.
Three days later it was announced that he had died in the hospital at
Willingdon, in spite of receiving every attention a horse could have.
Squealer came to announce the news to the others. He had, he said, been
present during Boxer's last hours.
"It was the most affecting sight I have ever seen!" said Squealer, lifting
his trotter and wiping away a tear. "I was at his bedside at the very last.
And at the end, almost too weak to speak, he whispered in my ear that his
sole sorrow was to have passed on before the windmill was finished.
'Forward, comrades!' he whispered. 'Forward in the name of the Rebellion.
Long live Animal Farm! Long live Comrade Napoleon! Napoleon is always
right." Those were his very last words, comrades."
Here Squealer's demeanour suddenly changed. He fell silent for a moment, and
his little eyes darted suspicious glances from side to side before he
proceeded.
It had come to his knowledge, he said, that a foolish and wicked rumour had
been circulated at the time of Boxer's removal. Some of the animals had
noticed that the van which took Boxer away was marked "Horse Slaughterer,"
and had actually jumped to the conclusion that Boxer was being sent to the
knacker's. It was almost unbelievable, said Squealer, that any animal could
be so stupid. Surely, he cried indignantly, whisking his tail and skipping
from side to side, surely they knew their believed Leader, Comrade Napoleon,
better than that? But the explanation was really very simple. The van had
previously been the property of the knacker, and had been bought by the
veterinary surgeon, who had not yet painted the old name out. That was how
the mistake had arisen.
The animals were enormously relieved to hear this. And when Squealer went on
to give further graphic details of Boxer's death-bed, the admirable care he
had received, and the expensive medicines for which Napoleon had paid without
a thought as to the cost, their last doubts disappeared and the sorrow that
they felt for their comrade's death was tempered by the thought that at least
he died happy.
Napoleon himself appeared at the meeting on the following Sunday morning and
pronounced a short oration in Boxer's honour. It had not been possible, he
said, to bring back their lamented comrade's remains for interment on the
farm, but he had ordered a large wreath to be made from the laurels in the
farmhouse garden and sent down to be placed on Boxer's grave. And in a few
days' time the pigs intended to hold a memorial banquet in Boxer's honour.
Napoleon ended his speech with a reminder of Boxer's two favourite maxims, "I
will work harder" and "Comrade Napoleon is always right"--maxims, he said,
which every animal would do well to adopt as his own.
On the day appointed for the banquet, a grocer's van drove up from Willingdon
and delivered a large wooden crate at the farmhouse. That night there was
the sound of uproarious singing, which was followed by what sounded like a
violent quarrel and ended at about eleven o'clock with a tremendous crash of
glass. No one stirred in the farmhouse before noon on the following day, and
the word went round that from somewhere or other the pigs had acquired the
money to buy themselves another case of whisky.
Chapter X:
Years passed. The seasons came and went, the short animal lives fled by.
A time came when there was no one who remembered the old days before the
Rebellion, except Clover, Benjamin, Moses the raven, and a number of the
pigs.
Muriel was dead; Bluebell, Jessie, and Pincher were dead. Jones too was
dead--he had died in an inebriates' home in another part of the country.
Snowball was forgotten. Boxer was forgotten, except by the few who had known
him. Clover was an old stout mare now, stiff in the joints and with a
tendency to rheumy eyes. She was two years past the retiring age, but in
fact no animal had ever actually retired. The talk of setting aside a corner
of the pasture for superannuated animals had long since been dropped.
Napoleon was now a mature boar of twenty-four stone. Squealer was so fat
that he could with difficulty see out of his eyes. Only old Benjamin was
much the same as ever, except for being a little greyer about the muzzle,
and, since Boxer's death, more morose and taciturn than ever.
There were many more creatures on the farm now, though the increase was not
so great as had been expected in earlier years. Many animals had been born
to whom the Rebellion was only a dim tradition, passed on by word of mouth,
and others had been bought who had never heard mention of such a thing before
their arrival. The farm possessed three horses now besides Clover. They
were fine upstanding beasts, willing workers and good comrades, but very
stupid. None of them proved able to learn the alphabet beyond the letter B.
They accepted everything that they were told about the Rebellion and the
principles of Animalism, especially from Clover, for whom they had an almost
filial respect; but it was doubtful whether they understood very much of it.
The farm was more prosperous now, and better organised: it had even been
enlarged by two fields which had been bought from Mr. Pilkington. The
windmill had been successfully completed at last, and the farm possessed a
threshing machine and a hay elevator of its own, and various new buildings
had been added to it. Whymper had bought himself a dogcart. The windmill,
however, had not after all been used for generating electrical power. It was
used for milling corn, and brought in a handsome money profit. The animals
were hard at work building yet another windmill; when that one was finished,
so it was said, the dynamos would be installed. But the luxuries of which
Snowball had once taught the animals to dream, the stalls with electric light
and hot and cold water, and the three-day week, were no longer talked about.
Napoleon had denounced such ideas as contrary to the spirit of Animalism.
The truest happiness, he said, lay in working hard and living frugally.
Somehow it seemed as though the farm had grown richer without making the
animals themselves any richer--except, of course, for the pigs and the dogs.
Perhaps this was partly because there were so many pigs and so many dogs. It
was not that these creatures did not work, after their fashion. There was,
as Squealer was never tired of explaining, endless work in the supervision
and organisation of the farm. Much of this work was of a kind that the other
animals were too ignorant to understand. For example, Squealer told them
that the pigs had to expend enormous labours every day upon mysterious things
called "files," "reports," "minutes," and "memoranda." These were large
sheets of paper which had to be closely covered with writing, and as soon as
they were so covered, they were burnt in the furnace. This was of the
highest importance for the welfare of the farm, Squealer said. But still,
neither pigs nor dogs produced any food by their own labour; and there were
very many of them, and their appetites were always good.
As for the others, their life, so far as they knew, was as it had always
been. They were generally hungry, they slept on straw, they drank from the
pool, they laboured in the fields; in winter they were troubled by the cold,
and in summer by the flies. Sometimes the older ones among them racked their
dim memories and tried to determine whether in the early days of the
Rebellion, when Jones's expulsion was still recent, things had been better or
worse than now. They could not remember. There was nothing with which they
could compare their present lives: they had nothing to go upon except
Squealer's lists of figures, which invariably demonstrated that everything
was getting better and better. The animals found the problem insoluble; in
any case, they had little time for speculating on such things now. Only old
Benjamin professed to remember every detail of his long life and to know that
things never had been, nor ever could be much better or much worse--hunger,
hardship, and disappointment being, so he said, the unalterable law of life.
And yet the animals never gave up hope. More, then never lost, even for an
instant, their sense of honour and privilege in being members of Animal Farm.
They were still the only farm in the whole county--in all England!--owned and
operated by animals. Not one of them, not even the youngest, not even the
newcomers who had been brought from farms ten or twenty miles away, ever
ceased to marvel at that. And when they heard the gun booming and saw the
green flag fluttering at the masthead, their hearts swelled with imperishable
pride, and the talk turned always towards the old heroic days, the expulsion
of Jones, the writing of the Seven Commandments, the great battles in which
the human invaders had been defeated. None of the old dreams had been
abandoned. The Republic of the Animals which Major had foretold, when the
green fields of England should be untrodden by human feet, was still believed
in. Some day it was coming: it might not be soon, it might not be within
the lifetime of any animal now living, but still it was coming. Even the
tune of 'Beasts of England' was perhaps hummed secretly here and there: at
any rate, it was a fact that every animal on the farm knew it, thought no one
would have dared to sing it aloud. It might be that their lives were hard
and that not all of their hopes had been fulfilled; but they were conscious
that they were not as other animals. If they went hungry, it was not from
feeding tyrannical human beings; if they worked hard, at least they worked
for themselves. No creature among them went upon two legs. No creature
called any other creature "Master." All animals were equal.
One day in early summer Squealer ordered the sheep to follow him, and led
them out to a piece of waste ground at the other end of the farm, which had
become overgrown with birch saplings. The sheep spent the whole day there
browsing at the leaves under Squealer's supervision. In the evening he
returned to the farmhouse himself, but, as it was warm weather, told the
sheep to stay where they were. It ended by their remaining there for a whole
week, during which time the other animals saw nothing of them. Squealer was
with them for the greater part of every day. He was, he said, teaching them
to sing a new song, for which privacy was needed.
It was just after the sheep had returned, on a pleasant evening when the
animals had finished work and were making their way back to the farm
buildings, that the terrified neighing of a horse sounded from the yard.
Startled, the animals stopped in their tracks. It was Clover's voice. She
neighed again, and all the animals broke into a gallop and rushed into the
yard. Then they saw what Clover had seen.
It was a pig walking on his hind legs.
Yes, it was Squealer. A little awkwardly, as though not quite used to
supporting his considerable bulk in that position, but with perfect balance,
he was strolling across the yard. And a moment later, out from the door of
the farmhouse came a long file of pigs, all walking on their hind legs. Some
did it better than others, one or two were even a trifle unsteady and looked
as though they would have liked the support of a stick, but every one of them
made his way right round the yard successfully. And finally there was a
tremendous baying of dogs and a shrill crowing from the black cockerel, and
out came Napoleon himself, majestically upright, casting haughty glances from
side to side, and with his dogs gambolling round him.
He carried a whip in his trotter.
There was a deadly silence. Amazed, terrified, huddling together, the
animals watched the long line of pigs march slowly round the yard. It was as
though the world had turned upside-down. Then there came a moment when the
first shock had worn off and when, in spite of everything--in spite of the
terror of the dogs, and of the habit, developed through long years, of never
complaining, never criticizing, no matter what happened--they might have
uttered some word of protest. But just at that moment, as through a signal,
all the sheep burst out into a tremendous bleating of--
"Four legs good, two legs _better_! Four legs good, two legs _better_!"
It went on for five minutes without stopping. And by the time the sheep had
quieted down, the chance to utter any protest had passed, for the pigs had
marched back into the farmhouse.
Benjamin felt a nose nuzzling at his shoulder. He looked round. It was
Clover. Her old eyes looked dimmer than ever. Without saying anything, she
tugged gently at his mane and led him round to the end of the big barn, where
the Seven Commandments were written. For a minute or two they stood gazing
at the tarred wall with its white lettering.
"My sight is failing," she said finally. "Even when I was young I could not
have read what was written there. But it appears to me that that wall looks
different. Are the Seven Commandments the same as they used to be,
Benjamin?"
For once Benjamin consented to break his rule, and he read out to her what
was written on the wall. There was nothing now except a single Commandment.
It ran:
All Animals are Equal
But Some Animals are More Equal than Others
After that it did not seem strange when next day the pigs who were
supervising the work of the farm all carried whips in their trotters. It did
not seem strange to learn that the pigs had bought themselves a wireless set,
were arranging to install a telephone, and had taken out subscriptions to
"John Bull", "Tit-Bits", and the "Daily Mirror". It did not seem strange
when Napoleon was seen strolling in the farmhouse garden with a pipe in his
mouth--no, not even when the pigs took Mr. Jones's clothes out of the
wardrobes and put them on, Napoleon himself appearing in a black coat,
ratcatcher breeches, and leather leggings, while his favourite sow appeared
in the watered silk dress which Mrs. Jones had been used to wear on Sundays.
A week later, in the afternoon, a number of dog-carts drove up to the farm.
A deputation of neighboring farmers had been invited to make a tour of
inspection. They were shown all over the farm, and expressed great
admiration for everything they saw, especially the windmill. The animals
were weeding the turnip field. They worked diligently, hardly raising their
faces from the ground, and not knowing whether to be more frightened of the
pigs or of the human visitors.
That evening loud laughter and bursts of singing came from the farmhouse.
And suddenly, at the sound of the mingled voices, the animals were stricken
with curiosity. What could be happening in there, now that for the first
time animals and human beings were meeting on terms of equality? With one
accord they began to creep as quietly as possible into the farmhouse garden.
At the gate they paused, half frightened to go on, but Clover led the way in.
They tiptoed up to the house, and such animals as were tall enough peered in
the dining-room window. There, round the long table, sat half a dozen
farmers and half a dozen of the more eminent pigs, Napoleon himself occupying
the seat of honour at the head of the table. The pigs appeared completely at
ease in their chairs. The company had been enjoying a game of cards, but had
broken off for the moment, evidently in order to drink a toast. A large jug
was circulating, and the mugs were being refilled with beer. No one noticed
the wondering faces of the animals that gazed in the window.
Mr. Pilkington, of Foxwood, had stood up, his mug in his hand. In a moment,
he said, he would ask the present company to drink a toast. But before doing
so, there were a few words that he felt it incumbent upon him to say.
It was a source of great satisfaction to him, he said--and, he was sure, to
all others present--to feel that a long period of mistrust and
misunderstanding had now come to an end. There had been a time--not that he,
or any of the present company, had shared such sentiments--but there had been
a time when the respected proprietors of Animal Farm had been regarded, he
would not say with hostility, but perhaps with a certain measure of
misgiving, by their human neighbours. Unfortunate incidents had occurred,
mistaken ideas had been current. It had been felt that the existence of a
farm owned and operated by pigs was somehow abnormal and was liable to have
an unsettling effect in the neighborhood. Too many farmers had assumed,
without due enquiry, that on such a farm a spirit of licence and indiscipline
would prevail. They had been nervous about the effects upon their own
animals, or even upon their human employees. But all such doubts were now
dispelled. Today he and his friends had visited Animal Farm and inspected
every inch of it with their own eyes, and what did they find? Not only the
most up-to-date methods, but a discipline and an orderliness which should be
an example to all farmers everywhere. He believed that he was right in
saying that the lower animals on Animal Farm did more work and received less
food than any animals in the county. Indeed, he and his fellow-visitors
today had observed many features which they intended to introduce on their
own farms immediately.
He would end his remarks, he said, by emphasising once again the friendly
feelings that subsisted, and ought to subsist, between Animal Farm and its
neighbours. Between pigs and human beings there was not, and there need not
be, any clash of interests whatever. Their struggles and their difficulties
were one. Was not the labour problem the same everywhere? Here it became
apparent that Mr. Pilkington was about to spring some carefully prepared
witticism on the company, but for a moment he was too overcome by amusement
to utter it. After much choking, during which his various chins turned
purple, he managed to get it out: "If you have your lower animals to contend
with," he said, "we have our lower classes!" This bon mot set the table in
a roar; and Mr. Pilkington once again congratulated the pigs on the low
rations, the long working hours, and the general absence of pampering which
he had observed on Animal Farm.
And now, he said finally, he would ask the company to rise to their feet and
make certain that their glasses were full. "Gentlemen," concluded Mr.
Pilkington, "gentlemen, I give you a toast: To the prosperity of Animal
Farm!"
There was enthusiastic cheering and stamping of feet. Napoleon was so
gratified that he left his place and came round the table to clink his mug
against Mr. Pilkington's before emptying it. When the cheering had died
down, Napoleon, who had remained on his feet, intimated that he too had a few
words to say.
Like all of Napoleon's speeches, it was short and to the point. He too, he
said, was happy that the period of misunderstanding was at an end. For a
long time there had been rumours--circulated, he had reason to think, by some
malignant enemy--that there was something subversive and even revolutionary
in the outlook of himself and his colleagues. They had been credited with
attempting to stir up rebellion among the animals on neighbouring farms.
Nothing could be further from the truth! Their sole wish, now and in the
past, was to live at peace and in normal business relations with their
neighbours. This farm which he had the honour to control, he added, was a
co-operative enterprise. The title-deeds, which were in his own possession,
were owned by the pigs jointly.
He did not believe, he said, that any of the old suspicions still lingered,
but certain changes had been made recently in the routine of the farm which
should have the effect of promoting confidence still further. Hitherto the
animals on the farm had had a rather foolish custom of addressing one another
as "Comrade." This was to be suppressed. There had also been a very strange
custom, whose origin was unknown, of marching every Sunday morning past a
boar's skull which was nailed to a post in the garden. This, too, would be
suppressed, and the skull had already been buried. His visitors might have
observed, too, the green flag which flew from the masthead. If so, they
would perhaps have noted that the white hoof and horn with which it had
previously been marked had now been removed. It would be a plain green flag
from now onwards.
He had only one criticism, he said, to make of Mr. Pilkington's excellent and
neighbourly speech. Mr. Pilkington had referred throughout to "Animal Farm."
He could not of course know--for he, Napoleon, was only now for the first
time announcing it--that the name "Animal Farm" had been abolished.
Henceforward the farm was to be known as "The Manor Farm"--which, he
believed, was its correct and original name.
"Gentlemen," concluded Napoleon, "I will give you the same toast as before,
but in a different form. Fill your glasses to the brim. Gentlemen, here is
my toast: To the prosperity of The Manor Farm!"
There was the same hearty cheering as before, and the mugs were emptied to
the dregs. But as the animals outside gazed at the scene, it seemed to them
that some strange thing was happening. What was it that had altered in the
faces of the pigs? Clover's old dim eyes flitted from one face to another.
Some of them had five chins, some had four, some had three. But what was it
that seemed to be melting and changing? Then, the applause having come to an
end, the company took up their cards and continued the game that had been
interrupted, and the animals crept silently away.
But they had not gone twenty yards when they stopped short. An uproar of
voices was coming from the farmhouse. They rushed back and looked through
the window again. Yes, a violent quarrel was in progress. There were
shoutings, bangings on the table, sharp suspicious glances, furious denials.
The source of the trouble appeared to be that Napoleon and Mr. Pilkington had
each played an ace of spades simultaneously.
Twelve voices were shouting in anger, and they were all alike. No question,
now, what had happened to the faces of the pigs. The creatures outside
looked from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again; but
already it was impossible to say which was which.
?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!
?!?! Typed up by Jed Hazelwood at Th'Outernet @ !%$)$%((%(#, 300-14.4K ?!?!
?!?! 24 hours/day 'cept when it's crashed--We're up when you are. ?!?!
?!?! Files, discussion, freakiness--Something For Everyone. ?!?!
?!?! "Th'Outernet--The misfit's last alternative" ?!?!
?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!
|
|
|
To the best of our knowledge, the text on this page may be freely reproduced and distributed.
If you have any questions about this, please check out our Copyright Policy.
totse.com certificate signatures
|
|
|
About | Advertise | Bad Ideas | Community | Contact Us | Copyright Policy | Drugs | Ego | Erotica
FAQ | Fringe | Link to totse.com | Search | Society | Submissions | Technology
|
|
|
|
|
|
