乔治·奥威尔：Animal Farm1

Animal Farm

George Orwell

1945

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.

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

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

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

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.

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

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,

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.

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

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.

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:

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.