ALL that year the animals worked
like slaves. But they were happy in their work; they grudged no effort or
sacrifice, well aware that everything that they did was for the benefit of
themselves and those of their kind who would come after them, and not for a
pack of idle, thieving human beings.
Throughout the spring and summer they worked a sixty-hour week, and in
August Napoleon announced that there would be work on Sunday afternoons as
well. This work was strictly voluntary, but any animal who absented himself
from it would have his rations reduced by half. Even so, it was found
necessary to leave certain tasks undone. The harvest was a little less
successful than in the previous year, and two fields which should have been
sown with roots in the early summer were not sown because the ploughi ng had
not been completed early enough. It was possible to foresee that the coming
winter would be a hard one.
The windmill presented unexpected difficulties. There was a good quarry of
limestone on the farm, and plenty of sand and cement had been found in one of
the outhouses, so that all the materials for building were at hand. But the
problem the animals could not at first solve was how to break up the stone
into pieces of suitable size. There seemed no way of doing this except with
picks and crowbars, which no animal could use, because no animal could stand
on his hind legs. Only after weeks of vain effort d id the right idea occur to
somebody—namely, to utilise the force of gravity. Huge boulders, far too big
to be used as they were, were lying all over the bed of the quarry. The
animals lashed ropes round these, and then all together, cows, horses, sheep,
any animal that could lay hold of the rope—even the pigs sometimes joined in
at critical moments—they dragged them with desperate slowness up the slope to
the top of the quarry, where they were toppled over the edge, to shatter to
pieces below. Transporting the stone when it was once broken was comparatively
simple. The horses carried it off in cart-loads, the sheep dragged single
blocks, even Muriel and Benjamin yoked themselves into an old governess-cart
and did their share. By late summer a sufficient store of stone had
accumulated, and then the building began, under the superintendence of the
pigs.
But it was a slow, laborious process. Frequently it took a whole day of
exhausting effort to drag a single boulder to the top of the quarry, and
sometimes when it was pushed over the edge it failed to break. Nothing could
have been achieved without Boxer, whose strength seemed equal to that of all
the rest of the animals put together. When the boulder began to slip and the
animals cried out in despair at finding themselves dragged down the hill, it
was always Boxer who strained himself against the rope and brought the boulder
to a stop. To see him toiling up the slope inch by inch, his breath coming
fast, the tips of his hoofs clawing at the ground, and his great sides matted
with sweat, filled everyone with admiration. Clover warned him sometimes to be
careful not to overstrain himself, but Boxer would never listen to her. His
two slogans, "I will work harder" and "Napoleon is always right," seemed to
him a sufficient answer to all problems. He had made arrangements with the
cockerel to call him three-qu arters of an hour earlier in the mornings
instead of half an hour. And in his spare moments, of which there were not
many nowadays, he would go alone to the quarry, collect a load of broken
stone, and drag it down to the site of the windmill unassisted.
The animals were not badly off throughout that summer, in spite of the
hardness of their work. If they had no more food than they had had in Jones's
day, at least they did not have less. The advantage of only having to feed
themselves, and not having to support five extravagant human beings as well,
was so great that it would have taken a lot of failures to outweigh it. And in
many ways the animal method of doing things was more efficient and saved
labour. Such jobs as weeding, for instance, could be do ne with a thoroughness
impossible to human beings. And again, since no animal now stole, it was
unnecessary to fence off pasture from arable land, which saved a lot of labour
on the upkeep of hedges and gates. Nevertheless, as the summer wore on,
various unforeseen shortages began to make them selves felt. There was need of
paraffin oil, nails, string, dog biscuits, and iron for the horses' shoes,
none of which could be produced on the farm. Later there would also be need
for seeds and artificial manures, b esides various tools and, finally, the
machinery for the windmill. How these were to be procured, no one was able to
imagine.
One Sunday morning, when the animals assembled to receive their orders,
Napoleon announced that he had decided upon a new policy. From now onwards
Animal Farm would engage in trade with the neighbouring farms: not, of course,
for any commercial purpose, but simply in order to obtain certain materials
which were urgently necessary. The needs of the windmill must override
everything else, he said. He was therefore making arrangements to sell a stack
of hay and part of the current year's wheat crop, and la ter on, if more money
were needed, it would have to be made up by the sale of eggs, for which there
was always a market in Willingdon. The hens, said Napoleon, should welcome
this sacrifice as their own special contribution towards the building of the
windmill.
Once again the animals were conscious of a vague uneasiness. Never to have
any dealings with human beings, never to engage in trade, never to make use of
money—had not these been among the earliest resolutions passed at that first
triumphant Meeting after Jones was expelled? All the animals remembered
passing such resolutions: or at least they thought that they remembered it.
The four young pigs who had protested when Napoleon abolished the Meetings
raised their voices timidly, but they were promptly si lenced by a tremendous
growling from the dogs. Then, as usual, the sheep broke into "Four legs good,
two legs bad!" and the momentary awkwardness was smoothed over. Finally
Napoleon raised his trotter for silence and announced that he had already made
all the arrangements. There would be no need for any of the animals to come in
contact with human beings, which would clearly be most undesirable. He
intended to take the whole burden upon his own shoulders. A Mr. Whymper, a
solicitor living in Willingdon, had agreed to act as intermediary between
Animal Farm and the outside world, and would visit the farm every Monday
morning to receive his instructions. Napoleon ended his speech with his usual
cry of "Long live Animal Farm!" and after the singing of Beasts of
England the animals were dismissed.
Afterwards Squealer made a round of the farm and set the animals' minds at
rest. He assured them that the resolution against engaging in trade and using
money had never been passed, or even suggested. It was pure imagination,
probably traceable in the beginning to lies circulated by Snowball. A few
animals still felt faintly doubtful, but Squealer asked them shrewdly, "Are
you certain that this is not something that you have dreamed, comrades? Have
you any record of such a resolution? Is it written down anywhere?" And since
it was certainly true that nothing of the kind existed in writing, the animals
were satisfied that they had been mistaken.
Every Monday Mr. Whymper visited the farm as had been arranged. He was a
sly-looking little man with side whiskers, a solicitor in a very small way of
business, but sharp enough to have realised earlier than anyone else that
Animal Farm would need a broker and that the commissions would be worth
having. The animals watched his coming and going with a kind of dread, and
avoided him as much as possible. Nevertheless, the sight of Napoleon, on all
fours, delivering orders to Whymper, who stood on two legs, roused their pride
and partly reconciled them to the new arrangement. Their relations with the
human race were now not quite the same as they had been before. The human
beings did not hate Animal Farm any less now that it was prospering; indeed,
they hated it more than ever. Every human being held it as an article of faith
that the farm would go bankrupt sooner or later, and, above all, that the
windmill would be a failure. They would meet in the public-houses and prove to
one another by means of diagrams that the windmill was bound to fall down, or
that if it did stand up, then that it would never work. And yet, against their
will, they had developed a certain respect for the efficiency with which the
animals were managing their own affairs. One symptom of this was that they had
begun to call Animal Farm by its proper name and ceased to pretend that it was
called the Manor Farm. They had also dropped their championship of Jones, who
had given up hope of getting his farm back and gone to live in another part of
the county. Except through Whymper, there was as yet no contact between Animal
Farm and the outside world, but there were constant rumours that Napoleon was
about to enter into a definite business agreement either with Mr. Pilkington
of Foxwood or with Mr. Frederick of Pinchfield—but never, it was noticed, with
both simultaneously.
It was about this time that the pigs suddenly moved into the farmhouse and
took up their residence there. Again the animals seemed to remember that a
resolution against this had been passed in the early days, and again Squealer
was able to convince them that this was not the case. It was absolutely
necessary, he said, that the pigs, who were the brains of the farm, should
have a quiet place to work in. It was also more suited to the dignity of the
Leader (for of late he had taken to speaking of Napoleon under the title of
"Leader") to live in a house than in a mere sty. Nevertheless, some of the
animals were disturbed when they heard that the pigs not only took their meals
in the kitchen and used the drawing-room as a recreation room, but also slept
in the beds. Boxer passed it off as usual with "Napoleon is always right!",
but Clover, who thought she remembered a definite ruling against beds, went to
the end of the barn and tried to puzzle out the Seven Commandments which were
inscribed there. Finding he rself unable to read more than individual letters,
she fetched Muriel.
"Muriel," she said, "read me the Fourth Commandment. Does it not say
something about never sleeping in a bed?"
With some difficulty Muriel spelt it out.
"It says, 'No animal shall sleep in a bed with sheets,"' she
announced finally.
Curiously enough, Clover had not remembered that the Fourth Commandment
mentioned sheets; but as it was there on the wall, it must have done so. And
Squealer, who happened to be passing at this moment, attended by two or three
dogs, was able to put the whole matter in its proper perspective.
"You have heard then, comrades," he said, "that we pigs now sleep in the
beds of the farmhouse? And why not? You did not suppose, surely, that there
was ever a ruling against beds? A bed merely means a place to sleep in.
A pile of straw in a stall is a bed, properly regarded. The rule was against
sheets, which are a human invention. We have removed the sheets from the
farmhouse beds, and sleep between blankets. And very comfortable beds they are
too! But not more comfortable than we need, I can t ell you, comrades, with
all the brainwork we have to do nowadays. You would not rob us of our repose,
would you, comrades? You would not have us too tired to carry out our duties?
Surely none of you wishes to see Jones back?"
The animals reassured him on this point immediately, and no more was said
about the pigs sleeping in the farmhouse beds. And when, some days afterwards,
it was announced that from now on the pigs would get up an hour later in the
mornings than the other animals, no complaint was made about that either.
By the autumn the animals were tired but happy. They had had a hard year,
and after the sale of part of the hay and corn, the stores of food for the
winter were none too plentiful, but the windmill compensated for everything.
It was almost half built now. After the harvest there was a stretch of clear
dry weather, and the animals toiled harder than ever, thinking it well worth
while to plod to and fro all day with blocks of stone if by doing so they
could raise the walls another foot. Boxer would even c ome out at nights and
work for an hour or two on his own by the light of the harvest moon. In their
spare moments the animals would walk round and round the half-finished mill,
admiring the strength and perpendicularity of its walls and marvelling that
they should ever have been able to build anything so imposing. Only old
Benjamin refused to grow enthusiastic about the windmill, though, as usual, he
would utter nothing beyond the cryptic remark that donkeys live a long time.
November came, with raging south-west winds. Building had to stop because
it was now too wet to mix the cement. Finally there came a night when the gale
was so violent that the farm buildings rocked on their foundations and several
tiles were blown off the roof of the barn. The hens woke up squawking with
terror because they had all dreamed simultaneously of hearing a gun go off in
the distance. In the morning the animals came out of their stalls to find that
the flagstaff had been blown down and an elm tree at the foot of the orchard
had been plucked up like a radish. They had just noticed this when a cry of
despair broke from every animal's throat. A terrible sight had met their eyes.
The windmill was in ruins.
With one accord they dashed down to the spot. Napoleon, who seldom moved
out of a walk, raced ahead of them all. Yes, there it lay, the fruit of all
their struggles, levelled to its foundations, the stones they had broken and
carried so laboriously scattered all around. Unable at first to speak, they
stood gazing mournfully at the litter of fallen stone Napoleon paced to and
fro in silence, occasionally snuffing at the ground. His tail had grown rigid
and twitched sharply from side to side, a sign in hi m of intense mental
activity. Suddenly he halted as though his mind were made up.
"Comrades," he said quietly, "do you know who is responsible for this? Do
you know the enemy who has come in the night and overthrown our windmill?
SNOWBALL!" he suddenly roared in a voice of thunder.
"Snowball has done this thing! In sheer malignity, thinking to set back our
plans and avenge himself for his ignominious expulsion, this traitor has crept
here under cover of night and destroyed our work of nearly a year. Comrades,
here and now I pronounce the death sentence upon Snowb all. 'Animal Hero,
Second Class,' and half a bushel of apples to any animal who brings him to
justice. A full bushel to anyone who captures him alive!"
The animals were shocked beyond measure to learn that even Snowball could
be guilty of such an action. There was a cry of indignation, and everyone
began thinking out ways of catching Snowball if he should ever come back.
Almost immediately the footprints of a pig were discovered in the grass at a
little distance from the knoll. They could only be traced for a few yards, but
appeared to lead to a hole in the hedge. Napoleon snuffed deeply at them and
pronounced them to be Snowball's. He gave it as his o pinion that Snowball had
probably come from the direction of Foxwood Farm.
"No more delays, comrades!" cried Napoleon when the footprints had been
examined. "There is work to be done. This very morning we begin rebuilding the
windmill, and we will build all through the winter, rain or shine. We will
teach this miserable traitor that he cannot undo our work so easily. Remember,
comrades, there must be no alteration in our plans: they shall be carried out
to the day. Forward, comrades! Long live the windmill! Long live Animal Farm!"
