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 droppe d. 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 bey ond 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. T he 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, S quealer 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 alw ays 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 swelle d 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 creatur e 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 fi nally 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 tho ugh 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, TitBits, and the Daily Mirror. It did not seem
strange when Napoleon was seen strolling in the farmhouse garden with a pipe
in his mouth—no, not even when the pigs took Mr. Jones's clothes out of the
wardrobes and put them on, Napoleon himself appearing in a black coat,
ratcatcher breeches, and leather leggings, while his favourite sow appeared in
the watered silk dress which Mrs. Jones had been used to wear on Sundays.
A week later, in the afternoon, a number of dogcarts 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 dr ink 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, m istaken 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 insp ected 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 overcom e 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 stiff 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.
