Animal Farm: The Story Continued

Ten years passed without much excitement. All the animals who had witnessed the rebellion had died long ago, apart from Benjamin the donkey. Napoleon had died several years before, and the old mare Clover had been accused of murdering him, and she had been executed brutally by the dogs. The animals later found out Napoleon had actually died of diabetes, leaving his oldest and cruelest son in charge of Manor Farm, Mr. Bonaparte.

One evening, after Mr. Bonaparte had finished his rounds, the animals gathered in the large barn for a meeting that had been called by Old Captain the elderly pig that had come to the farm ten years ago. A meeting hadn’t been called in many many years. Rumors flew around saying that the last meeting had been back when Napoleon had still been a pig. Nobody except old Benjamin knew this for sure because he was the only one still alive. 

As soon as the light in the bedroom went out, flutters and snorts arose from the farm yard. The animals gathered at one end of the barn. At the other end, on a sort of raised platform, Old Captain sat proudly on his bed of straw. He was eleven years old and had lately put on quite a bit of weight but still looked quite majestic sitting in his nest on the stage. It was not long before the animals made themselves comfortable and Old Captain began to speak. 

“Comrades, you have heard already about the strange dream that I had last night. But I will come to the dream later because I have something else to say first. I do not think, comrades, that I shall be with you for many weeks longer, and before I die, I feel it is 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 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 natures 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. Yes 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 fertilizes 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 have you laid 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 Bonaparte and his men.