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
face, 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 brillia nt 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 whi ch 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 their 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 Useful 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 wi th 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 wor k. 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 Snowball's 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, though 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
as 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, uttere d 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 w ould 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 disappro val, 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? Su ppose 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 fo r 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 th e 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.
