(영어소설 통독용) Animal Farm (Part 2)

(동물농장 2부) 

너무도 유명한 영어소설 '동물농장'입니다. 이것을 (1,2부 합해서) 3시간 정도만에 쉬지 않고 통독해 보시기 바랍니다. 좌우지간 다른 일이 터지기 전에 후다닥 끝내버리는 것이 이번 작전의 핵심입니다. 절대 사전 찾으면 안됩니다. 모르는 문장은 추측을 하고 넘어 갑니다. 시야를 넓게 여시고 숲을 보는 훈련을 하시기 바랍니다. 이런 책을 3시간 정도에 끝낼 수 있다면 확실한 고수의 대열에 들어서게 됩니다. 좀 힘들지만 한 번 도전해 보시기 바랍니다. 비록 이해를 100% 다 못했더라도 전혀 문제가 되지 않습니다. 이런 경험 자체가 영어에 대한 확실한 자신감을 갖게 해줄 것입니다. 건투를 빕니다^^
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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 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, the other animals following at a

respectful distance. At every few steps Napoleon stopped and snuffed the

ground for traces of Snowball's footsteps, which, he said, he could detect

by the smell. He snuffed in every corner, in the barn, in the cow-shed,

in the henhouses, in the vegetable garden, and found traces of Snowball

almost everywhere. He would put his snout to the ground, give several deep

sniffs, ad 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 is 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 animals' 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 that 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 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 according 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 slowly 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 neither 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 this

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 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 it should 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. But

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, what discouragements they had

overcome, and the enormous 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 his

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 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 banknotes were forgeries! Frederick

had got the timber for nothing!

 

Napoleon called the animals together immediately and in a terrible voice

pronounced the death sentence upon 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 addition, 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 hid 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 mighty 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. But 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. But 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 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 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 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 beloved

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 had 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, they 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 with in 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, though 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

their terror of the dogs, and of the habit, developed through long years,

of never complaining, never criticising, no matter what happened--they

might have uttered some word of protest. But just at that moment, as

though at a signal, all the sheep burst out into a tremendous bleating of--

 

"Four legs good, two legs BETTER! 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 tatted 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 there 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 wearing on Sundays.

 

A week later, in the afternoon, a number of dog-carts drove up to the farm.

A deputation of neighbouring 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 at 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 at 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 neighbourhood. 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 be able 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.

 

 

November 1943-February 1944

 

THE END