This is Animal Farm by George Orwell.
Chapter One.
Mr. Jones, of the Manor Farm, had locked the
hen-houses for the night, but was too drunk
to remember to shut the pop-holes.
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, 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?
"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.
Almost 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 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:
Beasts of England, beasts of Ireland,
Beasts of every land and clime,
Hearken to my joyful tidings
Of the golden future time.
Soon or late the day is coming,
Tyrant Man shall be o'erthrown,
And the fruitful fields of England
Shall be trod by beasts alone.
Rings shall vanish from our noses,
And the harness from our back,
Bit and spur shall rust forever,
Cruel whips no more shall crack.
Riches more than mind can picture,
Wheat and barley, oats and hay,
Clover, beans, and mangel-wurzels
Shall be ours upon that day.
Bright will shine the fields of England,
Purer shall its waters be,
Sweeter yet shall blow its breezes
On the day that sets us free.
For that day we all must labour,
Though we die before it break;
Cows and horses, geese and turkeys,
All must toil for freedom's sake.
Beasts of England, beasts of Ireland,
Beasts of every land and clime,
Hearken well and spread my tidings
Of the golden future time.
The singing of this song threw the animals
into the wildest excitement.
Almost before Major had reached the end, they
had begun singing it for themselves.
Even the stupidest of them had already picked
up the tune and a few of the words, and as
for the clever ones, such as the pigs and
dogs, they had the entire song by heart within
a few minutes.
And then, after a few preliminary tries, the
whole farm burst out into 'Beasts of England'
in tremendous unison.
The cows lowed it, the dogs whined it, the
sheep bleated it, the horses whinnied it,
the ducks quacked it.
They were so delighted with the song that
they sang it right through five times in succession,
and might have continued singing it all night
if they had not been interrupted.
Unfortunately, the uproar awoke Mr. Jones,
who sprang out of bed, making sure that there
was a fox in the yard.
He seized the gun which always stood in a
corner of his bedroom, and let fly a charge
of number 6 shot into the darkness.
The pellets buried themselves in the wall
of the barn and the meeting broke up hurriedly.
Everyone fled to his own sleeping-place.
The birds jumped on to their perches, the
animals settled down in the straw, and the
whole farm was asleep in a moment.
