Animal Farm Chapter X by George Orwell

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