Animal Farm

Animal Farm

George Orwell

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Etext by Roderick da Rat

I

MR. JONES, of the  Manor  Farm, had locked the hen−houses for the  night, but was too drunk to remember  to

shut  the popholes. With the  ring of light from  his lantern dancing from  side to side,  he  lurched across the

yard, kicked off his boots at the back  door, drew  himself a last glass of beer from the barrel in the scullery,

and  made  his way up to bed, where Mrs. Jones was already snoring. 

As  soon as the light in the bedroom went out there was  a stirring  and a fluttering all through the farm

buildings. Word had  gone round  during  the day that old Major, the prize Middle White boar, had had a

strange dream  on the previous night  and wished to communicate it to  the other animals. It  had been  agreed

that  they should all  meet in  the big barn as soon as Mr.  Jones was safely out of the way. Old  Major (so he  was

always called, though  the  name  under which he had  been exhibited was  Willingdon Beauty) was so  highly

regarded on the  farm that everyone was quite ready to lose an hour's  sleep in order  to hear what he had to say. 

At one end of the big barn, on a sort of raised platform, Major was  already  ensconced  on his bed of straw,

under a lantern which  hung  from a  beam. He was twelve years old and  had lately grown rather  stout, but he

was  still a majestic−looking pig, with a wise and  benevolent appearance in spite  of  the  fact  that his tushes  had

never been  cut.  Before long the other  animals  began  to  arrive  and  make  themselves  comfortable  after  their

different fashions.  First  came  the  three  dogs,  Bluebell,  Jessie,  and  Pincher, and  then the  pigs,  who settled

down  in  the straw immediately in  front  of the platform. The hens perched themselves on the window−sills,

the  pigeons fluttered up to the rafters, the  sheep and cows lay down  behind the  pigs and began to chew the

cud. The two cart−horses, Boxer  and Clover, came  in  together, walking very  slowly  and setting down  their

vast  hairy hoofs  with great care lest  there  should  be some  small animal concealed  in the  straw. Clover  was a

stout motherly  mare  approaching middle life, who had  never quite got her figure  back after her fourth foal.

Boxer was an enormous  beast, nearly  eighteen hands high,  and as strong as any two ordinary horses  put

together.  A white  stripe down  his nose gave  him  a  somewhat  stupid  appearance,  and  in fact  he was not of

first−rate  intelligence, but he was  universally respected for his steadiness of  character and  tremendous powers

of  work. After the  horses  came  Muriel, the  white goat, and Benjamin, the  donkey. Benjamin was the  oldest

animal on the farm, and the  worst tempered.  He seldom  talked,  and when he  did,  it  was usually to  make some

cynical  remark−for  instance, he would say that God had given him a tail to keep the  flies  off, but that he

would  sooner  have had no tail and  no flies.  Alone  among the animals  on the farm he never laughed. If asked

why,  he would say  that he  saw nothing to laugh at. Nevertheless, without  openly admitting it,  he was  devoted

to  Boxer;  the two  of  them  usually spent  their  Sundays  together in the small paddock beyond  the orchard,

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grazing side by  side and  never speaking. 

The two horses had just lain down when a  brood of ducklings, which  had  lost their  mother, filed into the

barn,  cheeping feebly and  wandering  from  side to side to  find some place  where they would not  be trodden

on.  Clover  made  a  sort  of  wall  round them with her  great foreleg,  and the  ducklings  nestled down  inside it

and  promptly fell asleep.  At  the  last  moment Mollie,  the foolish,  pretty white mare  who drew  Mr.  Jones's

trap,  came mincing daintily  in, chewing at a lump of  sugar. She took a place near  the front and  began flirting

her white mane, hoping to draw attention to the  red  ribbons it was plaited with. Last of all came the cat, who

looked  round,  as usual, for  the warmest place,  and  finally squeezed  herself in  between  Boxer  and  Clover;

there  she purred contentedly  throughout Major's speech  without listening to a word of what he was  saying. 

All the animals were now present except Moses,  the tame raven, who  slept on a perch behind the back door.

When Major saw that they had  all made  themselves comfortable and were  waiting attentively,  he  cleared his

throat  and began: 

"Comrades, you have heard  already about the  strange dream that  I  had last night. But I will come to the

dream later. I have something  else to  say  first. I  do  not  think, comrades, that I shall  be with  you  for many

months longer, and before  I die,  I feel it my duty  to  pass on to you such  wisdom as I  have acquired. I have

had a long  life, I have had much time for  thought as I  lay alone in my stall,  and I think I may say that I

understand  the  nature of life on this  earth as well as any  animal now living.  It  is  about this that I  wish to

speak to you. 

"Now,  comrades, what is the nature of  this life of ours?  Let  us  face it: our lives are miserable,  laborious, and

short. We are born,  we are  given just  so much food as will keep the breath in our bodies,  and those of  us  who

are capable  of  it  are forced  to  work to the  last atom  of our  strength; and the very instant that our usefulness

has come to an end we are  slaughtered with hideous cruelty.  No animal  in England knows the meaning of

happiness  or leisure after he is a  year old.  No animal in England is free.  The life of an animal is  misery and

slavery: that is the plain truth. 

"But is this simply part of the order of nature? Is it because this  land of  ours is so  poor that it  cannot afford a

decent life to  those who  dwell  upon it? No, comrades, a  thousand times no! The  soil  of  England is  fertile, its

climate is good,  it is capable of  affording food in abundance  to an enormously greater number of  animals than

now inhabit it. This single  farm  of  ours  would  support  a  dozen  horses, twenty  cows, hundreds  of  sheep−and

all  of them living in a comfort and a dignity that  are now almost  beyond  our imagining.  Why then  do we

continue in this miserable condition?  Because nearly the whole of  the produce  of our labour is stolen from  us

by  human beings. There, comrades,  is  the answer  to  all  our  problems. It is  summed up in a single word−Man.

Man is the  only real  enemy we have.  Remove  Man from the scene, and the root cause of  hunger and

overwork  is  abolished  for ever. 

"Man is the only creature that consumes without  producing. He does  not  give milk, he does not lay eggs, he is

too weak to  pull the  plough, he  cannot run fast enough to catch rabbits. Yet he is lord of  all the animals.  He

sets  them  to work, he gives back  to them  the  bare minimum that will  prevent them from starving, and  the rest

he  keeps for  himself. Our  labour  tills the soil, our dung fertilises  it, and yet there is not one of  us that  owns

more  than  his bare  skin.  You  cows that I  see  before me, how many  thousands of  gallons of milk have you

given during this  last year? And what  has  happened to that milk which should have been  breeding up sturdy

calves?  Every drop of it has gone down the throats of our enemies. And  you hens, how  many eggs have you

laid  in this  last year, and how  many of those eggs ever  hatched into chickens? The rest  have all gone  to

market to bring  in money  for Jones and his men. And you, Clover,  where are those four foals you bore,  who

should have been the support  and pleasure of your old age? Each was sold  at a year old−you will  never see

one of them again. In return for your  four  confinements  and all  your labour in  the  fields,  what have you ever

had  except  your bare rations and a stall? 

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"And  even the  miserable  lives we lead are  not  allowed to reach  their natural span. For myself I do not

grumble,  for I am  one of the  lucky  ones. I am twelve years old and have had over four hundred  children. Such

is  the natural life of a pig. But no animal escapes the  cruel knife in the end.  You young  porkers who  are

sitting in front  of  me, every  one  of you will  scream your lives out at the block  within a year. To that horror

we all must  come−cows, pigs, hens,  sheep, everyone. Even the horses and the dogs have no  better fate.  You,

Boxer, the very day that those great muscles of yours lose  their  power, Jones  will sell you to  the knacker, who

will cut your  throat  and boil you down for the foxhounds. As for the dogs, when they grow  old and  toothless,

Jones ties  a brick  round their necks and  drowns  them  in the  nearest pond. 

"Is it not  crystal  clear, then,  comrades, that all the  evils of  this life of  ours spring from the  tyranny of human

beings? Only get  rid of  Man, and the produce of  our  labour would be our own.  A1most  overnight we  could

become rich and free. What then must  we do? Why,  work night  and day,  body and soul,  for the overthrow of

the  human  race! That is  my message to  you, comrades: Rebellion! I do not know  when that Rebellion  will

come,  it  might  be in a week or in a  hundred years,  but  I  know, as surely as I see  this straw beneath my  feet,

that sooner or later justice will be  done. Fix  your eyes  on  that, comrades,  throughout the short remainder of

your lives!  And  above all, pass on this message of mine to those who come after you,  so  that future

generations shall carry on the struggle until it is  victorious. 

"And  remember, comrades,  your  resolution  must  never falter. No  argument must lead you astray. Never listen

when they tell you that  Man and  the animals have a common interest, that  the prosperity  of  the one is  the

prosperity  of  the  others. It is all lies. Man  serves  the interests of no  creature  except himself.  And among us

animals  let there be perfect unity,  perfect comradeship  in the  struggle. All  men are enemies. All animals are

comrades." 

At this moment there  was  a  tremendous  uproar.  While  Major was  speaking  four  large  rats had crept out of

their holes and were  sitting on  their hindquarters, listening to  him. The dogs had  suddenly caught sight of

them, and  it was only  by a swift dash for  their holes that the rats saved  their lives. Major raised his trotter  for

silence. 

"Comrades," he said, "here is  a  point that  must be settled.  The  wild  creatures,  such  as  rats and rabbits−are

they  our friends  or  our  enemies? Let us put it to the vote. I propose this question  to the meeting:  Are rats

comrades?" 

The vote was taken  at once, and  it was agreed by an  overwhelming  majority that rats were  comrades.  There

were only four  dissentients,  the  three dogs and the cat, who was afterwards  discovered to  have voted on both

sides. Major continued: 

"I have little more to  say. I merely repeat, remember always  your  duty of enmity towards Man and all his

ways.  Whatever goes upon two  legs is  an enemy.  Whatever  goes  upon  four legs, or has  wings, is  a friend.

And  remember also that in fighting  against  Man, we must  not come to  resemble  him.  Even when  you  have

conquered him, do  not adopt his vices.  No animal  must ever  live  in  a house, or  sleep in  a bed, or wear clothes,

or drink  alcohol, or smoke tobacco,  or  touch  money,  or engage in  trade. All  the  habits of Man are  evil. And,

above all, no animal must  ever tyrannise over  his own  kind. Weak or  strong, clever or simple, we  are  all

brothers. No  animal must ever kill any other animal. All animals are equal. 

"And now, comrades, I will tell you about my dream of last night. I  cannot describe that dream to you. It was

a dream of the earth as it  will be  when Man  has vanished.  But  it  reminded me  of something  that I  had long

forgotten. Many years ago, when I was a  little pig,  my mother and the other  sows used to sing an old song of

which they  knew only the tune and the first  three  words. I  had  known that tune  in  my infancy, but  it had long

since  passed out of  my mind. Last  night, however, it came back to me in my dream.  And  what is more, the

words of the song also came back−words, I am certain,  which were sung  by the animals of long ago and have

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been lost to  memory for  generations. I will sing you that song now, comrades. I am old and  my  voice  is

hoarse, but when I  have taught you the tune, you can sing  it better for  yourselves. It is called Beasts of

England." 

Old Major cleared his throat and began to sing. As he had said, his  voice was  hoarse, but he  sang well

enough, and  it  was  a stirring  tune,  something between Clementine and La Cucaracha.  The words ran: