IT WAS a bitter winter. The stormy
weather was followed by sleet and snow, and then by a hard frost which did not
break till well into February. The animals carried on as best they could with
the rebuilding of the windmill, well knowing that the outside world was
watching them and that the envious human beings would rejoice and triumph if
the mill were not finished on time.
Out of spite, the human beings pretended not to believe that it was
Snowball who had destroyer the windmill: they said that it had fallen down
because the walls were too thin. The animals knew that this was not the case.
Still, it had been decided to build the walls three feet thick this time
instead of eighteen inches as before, which meant collecting much larger
quantities of stone. For a long i.ne the quarry was full of snowdrifts and
nothing could be done. Some progress was made in the dry frosty we ather that
followed, but it was cruel work, and the animals could not feel so hopeful
about it as they had felt before. They were always cold, and usually hungry as
well. Only Boxer and Clover never lost heart. Squealer made excellent speeches
on the joy of service and the dignity of labour, but the other animals found
more inspiration in Boxer's strength and his never-failing cry of "I will work
harder! "
In January food fell short. The corn ration was drastically reduced, and
it was announced that an extra potato ration would be issued to make up for
it. Then it was discovered that the greater part of the potato crop had been
frosted in the clamps, which had not been covered thickly enough. The potatoes
had become soft and discoloured, and only a few were edible. For days at a
time the animals had nothing to eat but chaff and mangels. Starvation seemed
to stare them in the face.
It was vitally necessary to conceal this fact from the outside world.
Emboldened by the collapse of the windmill, the human beings were inventing
fresh lies about Animal Farm. Once again it was being put about that all the
animals were dying of famine and disease, and that they were continually
fighting among themselves and had resorted to cannibalism and infanticide.
Napoleon was well aware of the bad results that might follow if the real facts
of the food situation were known, and he decided to make u se of Mr. Whymper
to spread a contrary impression. Hitherto the animals had had little or no
contact with Whymper on his weekly visits: now, however, a few selected
animals, mostly sheep, were instructed to remark casually in his hearing that
rations had been increased. In addition, Napoleon ordered the almost empty
bins in the store-shed to be filled nearly to the brim with sand, which was
then covered up with what remained of the grain and meal. On some suitable
pretext Whymper was led through the store-s hed and allowed to catch a glimpse
of the bins. He was deceived, and continued to report to the outside world
that there was no food shortage on Animal Farm.
Nevertheless, towards the end of January it became obvious that it would
be necessary to procure some more grain from somewhere. In these days Napoleon
rarely appeared in public, but spent all his time in the farmhouse, which was
guarded at each door by fierce-looking dogs. When he did emerge, it was in a
ceremonial manner, with an escort of six dogs who closely surrounded him and
growled if anyone came too near. Frequently he did not even appear on Sunday
mornings, but issued his orders through one of the other pigs, usually
Squealer.
One Sunday morning Squealer announced that the hens, who had just come in
to lay again, must surrender their eggs. Napoleon had accepted, through
Whymper, a contract for four hundred eggs a week. The price of these would pay
for enough grain and meal to keep the farm going till summer came on and
conditions were easier.
When the hens heard this, they raised a terrible outcry. They had been
warned earlier that this sacrifice might be necessary, but had not believed
that it would really happen. They were just getting their clutches ready for
the spring sitting, and they protested that to take the eggs away now was
murder. For the first time since the expulsion of Jones, there was something
resembling a rebellion. Led by three young Black Minorca pullets, the hens
made a determined effort to thwart Napoleon's wishes. Thei r method was to fly
up to the rafters and there lay their eggs, which smashed to pieces on the
floor. Napoleon acted swiftly and ruthlessly. He ordered the hens' rations to
be stopped, and decreed that any animal giving so much as a grain of corn to a
hen should be punished by death. The dogs saw to it that these orders were
carried out. For five days the hens held out, then they capitulated and went
back to their nesting boxes. Nine hens had died in the meantime. Their bodies
were buried in the orchard, an d it was given out that they had died of
coccidiosis. Whymper heard nothing of this affair, and the eggs were duly
delivered, a grocer's van driving up to the farm once a week to take them
away.
All this while no more had been seen of Snowball. He was rumoured to be
hiding on one of the neighbouring farms, either Foxwood or Pinchfield.
Napoleon was by this time on slightly better terms with the other farmers than
before. It happened that there was in the yard a pile of timber which had been
stacked there ten years earlier when a beech spinney was cleared. It was well
seasoned, and Whymper had advised Napoleon to sell it; both Mr. Pilkington and
Mr. Frederick were anxious to buy it. Napoleon was hesitating between the two,
unable to make up his mind. It was noticed that whenever he seemed on the
point of coming to an agreement with Frederick, Snowball was declared to be in
hiding at Foxwood, while, when he inclined toward Pilkington, Snowball was
said to be at Pinchfield.
Suddenly, early in the spring, an alarming thing was discovered. Snowball
was secretly frequenting the farm by night! The animals were so disturbed that
they could hardly sleep in their stalls. Every night, it was said, he came
creeping in under cover of darkness and performed all kinds of mischief. He
stole the corn, he upset the milk-pails, he broke the eggs, he trampled the
seedbeds, he gnawed the bark off the fruit trees. Whenever anything went wrong
it became usual to attribute it to Snowball. If a window was broken or a drain
was blocked up, someone was certain to say that Snowball had come in the night
and done it, and when the key of the store-shed was lost, the whole farm was
convinced that Snowball had thrown it down the well. Curiously enough, they
went on believing this even after the mislaid key was found under a sack of
meal. The cows declared unanimously that Snowball 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 Snowb all 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 ab out 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 t he
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 t o 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 f ro, 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 forwar d 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 y ou 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 an d 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.
