Animal Farm Part 5

A second attempt to take back the farm, and the pigs discover alcohol. 

Included in this episode: 
Chapter 8 

Author: George Orwell

Contact the pod on: thesolobc@gmail.com 

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:00

Welcome to Solo Book Club. We're doing Animal Farm. This is part five. Oh my lord. So much has happened. Uh we're up to chapter eight. So in the first seven chapters, so much has happened. We've had the rebellion, we've had the attempt to take back the farm. We've had the overthrow of Snowball and Napoleon seen as a leader. He's got his little dogs around him, his little guard dogs. He's basically ruling through fear. Now we could all see this happening, couldn't we? We just I guess everyone's just kind of a bit taken by surprise, especially Snowball, at just how quickly and how decidedly Napoleon went about things. He just knew exactly what he was doing. The pigs have moved him to the farmhouse, they're sleeping in beds, even though everyone agreed not to. The pigs are changing the rules to suit them, aren't they? As all great dictators do. And so now we're up to chapter eight, to be honest. I'm concerned. I'm seriously concerned about the other animals. We had a massive slaughter last uh in part four, a massive slaughter of the people who made tiny little mistakes and who maybe didn't 100% agree with Napoleon the way he's running things. So let's get started. Chapter 8 and um hope for the best. A few days later, when the terror caused by the executions had died down, some of the animals remembered, or thought they remembered, that the sixth commandment decreed, no animal shall kill any other animal. Exactly. That's exactly what the sixth commandment was. I bet you the pigs have turned it around so that means something else. Or added a bit to the end like they did with the bed. No animals shall sleep in in a bed with sheets. What absolute nonsense. And though no one cared to mention it in the hearing of the pigs or the dogs, it was felt that the killings which had taken place did not square with this. Clover asked Benjamin to read her the sixth commandment, and when Benjamin, as usual, said that he refused to meddle in such matters, she fetched Muriel. Muriel read the commandment for her. It ran, No animal shall kill any other animal without cause. Somehow or other the last two words had slipped out of the animal's memory. No, they hadn't, they'd never been there in the first place. But they saw now that the commandment had not been violated, for clearly there was good reason for killing the traders who had leagued themselves with Snowball. Throughout that year, the animals worked even harder than they had worked in the previous year to rebuild the windmill with walls twice as thick as before and to finish it by the appointed date, together with the regular work of the farm, was a tremendous labour. There were times when it seemed to the animals that they worked longer hours and fed no better than they had done in Jones's day. On Sunday mornings, Squealer, holding down a long strip of paper with his trotter, would read out to them lists of figures proving that the production of every class of foodstuff had increased by 200%, 300% or 500% as the case might be. Um now I'm just going to draw your attention to this hyperbole and maybe question. Uh just throw the question out there, where have we seen such blatant hyperbole in recent years? I'm just putting it out there. The animals saw no reason to disbelieve him, especially as they could no longer remember very clearly what conditions had been like before the rebellion. All the same, there were days when they felt that they would sooner have had less figures and more food. And this is, I think, the thing that kind of dictators that rise up out of rebellion kind of rely on. They rely on the unreliability of memory. It's very hard to remember how bad things were previously. It's just how our brains work. Like we're, I don't know, maybe evolutionary, we're very focused on the now and how things feel now. And when comparing it to something that happened an extended period of time ago, whether that be years or in some cases decades, it can be very difficult to remember what it felt day to day and compare that to how you feel day to day now. I'm sure there's some kind of psychological paper on it that explains it way better than that, but anyway. All orders were now issued through Squealer or one of the other pigs. Napoleon himself was not seen in public as often as once in a fortnight. When he did appear, he was attended not only by his retinue of dogs, but by a black cockerel who marched in front of him and acted as a kind of trumpeter, letting out a loud cockadoodle-doo before Napoleon spoke. Even in the farmhouse it was said, Napoleon inhabited separate apartments from the others. He took his meals alone with two dogs to wait upon him, and always ate from the Crown Derby dinner service, which had been in the glass cupboard in the drawing room. It was also announced that the gun would be fired every year on Napoleon's birthday, as well as on the other two anniversaries. Napoleon's really slowly transforming himself into like this legacy, something to be honoured and celebrated when he hasn't really done anything. Napoleon was now never spoken of simply as Napoleon. He was always referred to in formal style as our leader, Comrade Napoleon. And the pigs like to invent for him such titles as father of all animals, terror of mankind, protector of the sheepfold, duckling's friend, and the like. In his speeches, Squealer would talk with the tears rolling down his cheeks of Napoleon's wisdom, the goodness of his heart and the deep love he bore to all animals everywhere, even and especially the unhappy animals who still lived in ignorance and slavery on other farms. It had become usual to give Napoleon the credit for every successful achievement and every stroke of good fortune. You would often hear one hen remark to another, Under the guidance of our leader, Comrade Napoleon, I have laid five eggs in six days. Or two cows enjoying a drink at the pool would exclaim, Thanks to the leadership of Comrade Napoleon, how excellent this water tastes. The general feeling on the farm was expressed in a poem entitled Comrade Napoleon, which was composed by Minimus and which ran as follows Friend of the Fatherless, Fountain of Happiness, Lord of the Swill Bucket, O how my soul is on fire when I gaze at thy calm and commanding eye, like the sun in the sky, Comrade Napoleon. Thou art the giver of all that thy creatures love, full bellied twice a day, clean straw to roll upon. Every beast, great or small, sleeps at peace in his store, thou watchest overall, Comrade Napoleon. Had I a sucking pig, ee he had grown as big, even as a pint bottle or as a rolling pin, he should have learned to be faithful and true to thee, yes, his first squeak should be, Comrade Napoleon. Napoleon approved of this poem and caused it to be inscribed on the wall of the big barn at the opposite end from the Seven Commandments. It was surmounted by a portrait of Napoleon in profile, executed by Squealer in white paint. Meanwhile, through the agency of Wimper, Napoleon was engaged in complicated negotiations with Frederick and Pilkington. The pile of timber was still unsold. Of the two, Frederick was the more anxious to get hold of it, but he would not offer a reasonable price. At the same time, there were renewed rumours that Frederick and his men were plotting to attack Animal Farm and to destroy the windmill, the building of which had aroused furious jealousy in him. Snowball was known to be still skulking on Pinchfield Farm. In the middle of the summer, the animals were alarmed to hear that three hens had come forward and confessed that, inspired by Snowball, they had entered into a plot to murder Napoleon. They were executed immediately, and fresh precautions for Napoleon's safety were taken. Four dogs guarded his bed at night, one at each corner, and a young pig named Pink Eye was given the task of tasting all his food before he ate it, lest it should be poisoned. At about the same time it was given out that Napoleon had arranged to sell the pile of timber to Mr. Pilkington. He was also going to enter into a regular agreement for the exchange of certain products between Animal Farm and Foxwood. The relations between Napoleon and Pilkington, though they were only conducted through Wimper, were now almost friendly. The animals distrusted Pilkington as a human being, but greatly preferred him to Frederick, whom they both feared and hated. As the summer wore on and the windmill neared completion, the rumours of an impending treacherous attack grew stronger and stronger. Frederick, it was said, intended to bring against them twenty men all armed with guns, and he had already bribed the magistrates and police so that if he could once get hold of the title deeds of Animal Farm, they would ask no questions. Moreover, terrible stories were leaking out from Pinchfield about the cruelties that Frederick practiced upon his animals. He had flogged an old horse to death, he starved his cows, he'd killed a dog by throwing it into the furnace. He amused himself in the evenings by making cocks fight with splinters of razor blades tied to their spurs. The animals' blood boiled with rage when they heard of these things being done to their comrades, and sometimes they clamoured to be allowed to go out in a body and attack Pinchfield Farm, drive out the humans and set the animals free. But Squealer counselled them to avoid rash actions and trust in Comrade Napoleon's strategy. Nevertheless, feeling against Frederick continued to run high. One Sunday morning, Napoleon appeared in the barn and explained that he had never at any time contemplated selling the pile of timber to Frederick. He considered it beneath his dignity, he said, to have dealings with scoundrels of that description. The pigeons who were still sent to spread out tidings of the rebellion were forbidden to set foot anywhere on Foxwood, and they were also ordered to drop their former slogan of death to humanity in favour of death to Frederick. In the late summer, yet another of Snowball's machinations was laid bare. The wheat crop was full of weeds, and it was discovered that on one of his nocturnal visits, Snowball had mixed weed seeds with the seed corn. My god, Snowball's pretty active. A gander who had been privy to the plot had confessed his guilt to Squealer and immediately committed suicide by swallowing deadly nightshade berries. The animals now also learned that Snowball had never, as many of them had believed hitherto, received the order of Animal Hero First Class. This was merely a legend which had been spread some time after the Battle of the Cowshed by Snowball himself. So far from being decorated, he had been censored for showing cowardice in the battle. Once again, some of the animals heard this with a certain bewilderment, but Squealer was soon able to convince them that their memories had been at fault. God, they are really painting Snowball as a proper enemy here. In the autumn, by a tremendous exhausting effort, for the harvest had to be gathered at almost the same time, the windmill was finished. The machinery had still to be installed, and Wimper was negotiating the price of it, but the structure was completed. In the teeth of every difficulty, in spite of inexperience, of primitive implements, of bad luck and snowball's treachery, the work had been finished punctually to the very day. Tired out but proud, the animals walked round and round their masterpiece, which appeared even more beautiful in their eyes than when it had been built the first time. Moreover, the walls were twice as thick as before. Nothing short of explosives would lay them low this time. And when they thought of how they had laboured, what discouragements they had overcome, and the enormous difference that would be made in their lives when the sails were turning and the dynamos running, when they thought of all this, their tiredness forsook them. And they gambled round and round the windmill, uttering cries of triumph. Napoleon himself, attended by his dogs and his cockerel, came down to inspect the completed work. He personally congratulated the animals on their achievement and announced that the mill would be named Napoleon Mill. Two days later, the animals were called together for a special meeting in the barn. They were struck dumb with surprise when Napoleon announced that he had sold the pile of timber to Frederick. What he just went on a whole thing about hating Frederick. Tomorrow, Frederick's wagons would arrive and begin carting it away. Throughout the whole period of his seeming friendship with Pilkington, Napoleon had really been in secret agreement with Frederick. All relations with Foxwood had been broken off, insulting messages had been sent to Pilkington. The pigeons had been told to avoid Pinchfield Farm and to alter their slogan from Death to Frederick to Death to Pilkington. At the same time, Napoleon assured the animals that the stories of an impeding attack on Animal Farm were completely untrue, and that the tales that Frederick's cruelty to his animals had been greatly exaggerated. All these rumours had probably originated with Snowball and his agents. Now appeared that Snowball was not, after all, hiding on Pinchfield Farm. Shocker there. And in fact had never been there in his life. He was living in considerable luxury, so it was said, at Foxwood, and had in reality been a pensioner of Pilkington for years past. The pigs were in ecstasies over Napoleon's cunning. By seeming to be friendly with Pilkington, he'd forced Frederick to raise his price by twelve pounds. But the superior quality of Napoleon's mind, said Squiller, was shown in the fact that he trusted nobody, not even Frederick. Frederick had wanted to pay for the timber with something called a cheque, which it seemed was a piece of paper with a promise to pay written upon it. But Napoleon was too clever for him. He had demanded payment in real five pound notes, which were to be handed over before the timber was removed. Already Frederick had paid up, and the sum he had paid was just enough to buy the machinery for the windmill. Meanwhile, the timber was being carted away at high speed. When it was all gone, another special meeting was held in the barn for the animals to inspect Frederick's banknotes. Smiling beautifically and wearing both his decorations, Napoleon reposed on a bed of straw on the platform, with the money at his side neatly piled on a china dish from the farmhouse kitchen. The animals filed slowly past and each gazed his fill, and Boxer put out his nose to sniff at the banknotes, and the flimsy white thing stirred and rustled in his breath. Three days later there was a terrible hullabaloo. Wimpa, his face deadly pale, came racing up the path on his bicycle, flung it down in the yard and rushed straight into the farmhouse. The next moment a choking roar of rage sounded from Napoleon's apartments. The news of what had happened spread round the farm like wildfire. The banknotes were forgeries. Frederick had got the timber for nothing. Napoleon called the animals together immediately and in a terrible voice pronounced the death sentence upon Frederick. My God, Napoleon's very free with handing out these death sentences. When captured, he said Frederick should be boiled alive. At the same time, he warned them that after this treacherous deed, the worst was to be expected. Frederick and his men might make their long expected attack at any moment. Sentinels were placed at all the approaches to the farm. In addition, four pigeons were sent to Foxwood with a conciliatory message, which it was hoped might re-establish good relations with Pilkington. Hey hell. Napoleon's really playing both sides here. The very next morning the attack came. The animals were at breakfast when the lookouts came racing in with the news that Frederick and his followers had already come through the five-barred gate. Boldly enough, the animals sallied forth to meet them, but this time they did not have the easy victory that they had had in the Battle of the Cowshed. There were fifteen men with half a dozen guns between them, and they opened fire as soon as they got within fifty yards. The animals could not face the terrible explosions and the stinging pellets, and in spite of the efforts of Napoleon and Boxer to rally them, they were soon driven back. A number of them were already wounded. They took refuge in the farm buildings and peeped cautiously out from chinks and nutholes. The whole of the big pasture, including the windmill, was in the hands of the enemy. For the moment even Napoleon seemed at a loss. He paced up and down without a word, his tail rigid and twitching. Wistful glances were sent in the direction of Foxwood. If Pilkington and his men would help them, the day might yet be won. But at this moment the four pigeons who had been sent out on the day before returned, one of them bearing a scrap of paper from Pilkington. On it was penciled the words, Serves you right. And so it does. Meanwhile, Frederick and his men had halted about the windmill. The animals watched them, and a murmur of dismay went round. Two of the men had produced a crowbar and a sledgehammer. They were going to knock the windmill down. Impossible cried Napoleon. We've built the walls far too thick for that. They could not knock it down in a week. Courage, comrades. But Benjamin was watching the movements of the men intently. The two with the hammer and the crowbar were drilling a hole near the base of the windmill. Slowly and with an air almost of amusement, Benjamin nodded his long muzzle. I thought so, he said. Do you not see what they are doing? In another moment they are going to pack blasting powder into that hole. Terrified, the animals waited. It was impossible now to venture out of the shelter of the buildings. After a few minutes the men were seen to be running in all directions. Then there was a deafening roar. The pigeons swirled into the air, and all the animals except Napoleon flung themselves flat on their bellies and hid their faces. When they got up again, a huge cloud of black smoke was hanging where the windmill had been. Slowly the breeze drifted it away. The windmill had ceased to exist. At this sight, the animals' courage returned to them. The fear and despair they had felt a moment earlier were drowned in their rage against this vile, contemptible act. A mighty cry for vengeance went up, and without waiting for further orders, they charged forth in a body and made straight for the enemy. This time they did not heed the cruel pellets that swept over them like hail. It was a savage, bitter battle. The men fired again and again, and when the animals got to close quarters, lashed out with their sticks and their heavy boots. A cow, three sheep, and two geese were killed, and nearly everyone was wounded. Even Napoleon, who was directing operations from the rear, yeah, of course he was. And the tip of his tail chipped by a pellet. But the men did not go unscathed either. Three of them had their heads broken by blows from boxes' hoofs. Another was gored in the belly by a cow's horn. Ouch. Another had his trousers nearly torn off by Jesse and Bluebell. And when the nine dogs and Napoleon's own bodyguard, whom he had instructed to make a detour under cover of the hedge, suddenly appeared on the men's flank, baying ferociously. Panic overtook them. They saw that they were in danger of being surrounded. Frederick shouted to his men to get out while the good was going, and the next moment the cowardly enemy was running for dear life. The animals chased them right down to the bottom of the field and got in some last kicks at them as they forced their way through the thorn hedge. They had won, but they were weary and bleeding. Slowly they began to limp back towards the farm. The sight of their dead comrades stretched upon the grass moved some of them to tears, and for a little while they halted in sorrowful silence at the place where the windmill had once stood. Yes, it was gone. Almost the last trace of their labour was gone. Even their foundations were partially. Destroyed, and in rebuilding it they could not this time as before make use of the fallen stones. This time the stones had vanished too. The force of the explosion had flung them to distances of hundreds of yards. It was as though the windmill had never been. As they approached the farm, Squealer, who had unaccountably been absent during the fighting, came skipping towards them, whisking his tail and beaming with satisfaction. The animals heard from the direction of the farm buildings the solemn booming of a gun. What is the gun firing for? said Boxer. To celebrate our victories, cried Squealer. What victory? said Boxer. His knees were bleeding, he'd lost a shoe and split his hoof, and a dozen pellets had lodged themselves in his hind leg. What victory, comrade, had we not driven the enemy off our soil, the sacred soil of Animal Farm? But they have destroyed the windmill, and we had worked on it for two years. What matter? We will build another windmill. We will build six windmills if we feel like it. You do not appreciate, comrade, the mighty thing that we have done. The enemy was in occupation of this very ground that we stand upon, and now, thanks to the leadership of Comrade Napoleon, we have won every inch of it back again. Then we have won back what we had before, said Boxer. That is our victory, said Squealer. They limped into the yard, the pellets under the skin of Boxer's legs smartered painfully. He saw ahead of him the heavy labour of rebuilding the windmill from the foundations, and already in imagination he braced himself for the task. But for the first time it occurred to him that he was eleven years old, and that perhaps his great muscles were not quite what they had once been. And when the animals saw the green flag flying and heard the gun firing again, seven times it was fired in awe, and heard the speech that Napoleon made congratulating them on their conduct, it did seem to them, after all, that they had won a great victory. The animals slain in the battle were given a solemn funeral. Boxer and Clover pulled the wagon which served as a hearse, and Napoleon himself walked at the head of the procession. Two whole days were given over to celebrations. There were songs, speeches, and more firing of the gun. And a special gift of an apple was bestowed on every animal, with two ounces of corn for each bird and three biscuits for each dog. It was announced that the battle would be called the Battle of the Windmill, and that Napoleon had created a new decoration, the Order of the Green Banner, which he had conferred upon himself, of course. In the general rejoicings, the unfortunate affair of the banknotes was forgotten. How convenient for Napoleon. It was a few days later than this that the pigs came upon a case of whiskey in the cellars of the farmhouse. It had been overlooked at the time when the house was first occupied. That night there came from the farmhouse a sound of loud singing, in which to everyone's surprise the strains of beasts of England were mixed up. At about half past nine, Napoleon, wearing an old bowler hat of Mr. Jones's, was distinctly seen to emerge from the back door, gallop rapidly around the yard and disappear indoors again. But in the morning a deep silence hung over the farmhouse. Not a pig appeared to be stirring. It was nearly nine o'clock when Squealer made his appearance, walking slowly and dejectedly, his eyes dull, his tail hanging limply behind him, and with every appearance of being seriously ill. He called the animals together and told them that he had a terrible piece of news to impart. Comrade Napoleon was dying. I mean now dying or just hungover, because they're two different things, aren't they? I mean you feel like you're dying when you're hungover, but a couple days, eat something decent, have a massive drink of water, you'll be fine. A cry of lamentation went up. Straw was laid down outside the doors of the farmhouse, and the animals walked on tiptoe. With tears in their eyes, they asked one another what they should do if their leader were taken away from them. A rumour went round, here we go, that Napoleon had, after all, contrived to introduce poison into Napoleon's food. At eleven o'clock, Squealer came out to make another announcement. As his last act upon earth, Comrade Napoleon had pronounced a solemn decree. The drinking of alcohol was to be punished by death. By the evening, however, Napoleon appeared to be somewhat better. There we go. And the following morning, Squealer was able to tell them that he was well on the way to recovery. By the evening of that day, Napoleon was back at work, and on the next day it was learned that he had instructed Wimper to purchase in Willingdon some booklets on brewing and distilling. A week later, Napoleon gave orders that the small paddock beyond the orchard, which it had previously been intended to set aside as a grazing ground for animals who were past work, was to be ploughed up. It was given out that the pasture was exhausted and needed reseeding, but it soon became known that Napoleon intended to sow it with barley. About this time there occurred a strange incident which hardly anyone was able to understand. One night, at about twelve o'clock there was a loud crash in the yard. The animals rushed out of their stalls. It was a moonlit night. At the foot of the end wall of the big barn, where the seven commandments were written, there lay a ladder broken in two pieces. Squealer, temporarily stunned, was sprawling beside it, and near at hand there lay a lantern, a paintbrush, and an overturned pot of white paint. What is this little bugger doing? The dogs immediately made a ring round Squealer and escorted him back to the farmhouse as soon as he was able to walk. None of the animals could form any idea as to what this meant, except old Benjamin, who nodded his muzzle with annoying air and seemed to understand, but would say nothing. But a few days later, Muriel, reading over the seven commandments to herself, noticed that there was yet another of them which the animals had remembered wrong. They had thought that the fifth commandment was no animal shall drink alcohol. But there were two words that they had forgotten. Actually, the commandment read, no animal shall drink alcohol to excess. I mean, they're just both so adept at making everything work for themselves and twisting the story, twisting what they say so that it works out for the pigs. I mean, just playing both sides. Frederick and Pilkington, and now he's made enemies of them both. I mean, that was smart. And uh then the battle. I mean, I just have to say, how many animals are living on this farm? Because they've had a massive slaying of execution, just piles of bodies, and now we've had more animals killed in this battle. I mean, there must be barely any animals left. That was pretty full on. Um, the battle and Napoleon and the just blatant changing of the commandments, and just the animals just not being sure because none of them can really read, and just having so much doubt in their memory. Um, all right, well, we'll leave it there. Next week uh will be our last part of Animal Farm. We'll do chapters 9 and 10, and then we'll have our uh discussion episode on the themes. I mean, I have a lot to talk about. I've been keeping notes, I've got a lot of things I want to say about this book and what Orwell is saying through this story uh quite blatantly. Like I can see how this book is banned in uh certain countries. All right, well, uh I'll see you next time.