V
AS WINTER drew on, Mollie became more and more troublesome.
She was late for work every morning and excused herself by saying that
she had overslept, and she complained of mysterious pains, although
her appetite was excellent. On every kind of pretext she would run
away from work and go to the drinking pool, where she would stand
foolishly gazing at her own reflection in the water. But there were also
rumours of something more serious. One day, as Mollie strolled
blithely into the yard, flirting her long tail and chewing at a stalk of
hay, Clover took her aside.
“Mollie,” she said, “I have something very serious to say to you. This
morning I saw you looking over the hedge that divides Animal Farm
from Foxwood. One of Mr. Pilkington’s men was standing on the other
side of the hedge. And-I was a long way away, but I am almost certain I
saw this-he was talking to you and you were allowing him to stroke
your nose. What does that mean, Mollie?”
“He didn’t! I wasn’t! It isn’t true!” cried Mollie, beginning to prance
about and paw the ground.
“Mollie! Look me in the face. Do you give me your word of honour
that that man was not stroking your nose?”
“It isn’t true!” repeated Mollie, but she could not look Clover in the
face, and the next moment she took to her heels and galloped away into
the field.
A thought struck Clover. Without saying anything to the others, she
went to Mollie’s stall and turned over the straw with her hoof. Hidden
under the straw was a little pile of lump sugar and several bunches of
ribbon of different colours.

Three days later Mollie disappeared. For some weeks nothing was
known of her whereabouts, then the pigeons reported that they had seen
her on the other side of Willingdon. She was between the shafts of a
smart dogcart painted red and black, which was standing outside a
public-house. A fat red-faced man in check breeches and gaiters, who
looked like a publican, was stroking her nose and feeding her with
sugar. Her coat was newly clipped and she wore a scarlet ribbon round
her forelock. She appeared to be enjoying herself, so the pigeons said.
None of the animals ever mentioned Mollie again.
In January there came bitterly hard weather. The earth was like iron,
and nothing could be done in the fields. Many meetings were held in
the big barn, and the pigs occupied themselves with planning out the
work of the coming season. It had come to be accepted that the pigs,
who were manifestly cleverer than the other animals, should decide all
questions of farm policy, though their decisions had to be ratified by a
majority vote. This arrangement would have worked well enough if it
had not been for the disputes between Snowball and Napoleon. These
two disagreed at every point where disagreement was possible. If one
of them suggested sowing a bigger acreage with barley, the other was
certain to demand a bigger acreage of oats, and if one of them said that
such and such a field was just right for cabbages, the other would
declare that it was useless for anything except roots. Each had his own
following, and there were some violent debates. At the Meetings
Snowball often won over the majority by his brilliant speeches, but
Napoleon was better at canvassing support for himself in between
times. He was especially successful with the sheep. Of late the sheep
had taken to bleating “Four legs good, two legs bad” both in and out of
season, and they often interrupted the Meeting with this. It was noticed
that they were especially liable to break into “Four legs good, two legs
bad” at crucial moments in Snowball’s speeches. Snowball had made a
close study of some back numbers of the Farmer and Stockbreeder
which he had found in the farmhouse, and was full of plans for
innovations and improvements. He talked learnedly about field drains,
silage, and basic slag, and had worked out a complicated scheme for all
the animals to drop their dung directly in the fields, at a different spot
every day, to save the labour of cartage. Napoleon produced no
schemes of his own, but said quietly that Snowball’s would come to
nothing, and seemed to be biding his time. But of all their
controversies, none was so bitter as the one that took place over the
windmill.

In the long pasture, not far from the farm buildings, there was a small
knoll which was the highest point on the farm. After surveying the
ground, Snowball declared that this was just the place for a windmill,
which could be made to operate a dynamo and supply the farm with
electrical power. This would light the stalls and warm them in winter,
and would also run a circular saw, a chaff-cutter, a mangel-slicer, and
an electric milking machine. The animals had never heard of anything
of this kind before (for the farm was an old-fashioned one and had only
the most primitive machinery), and they listened in astonishment while
Snowball conjured up pictures of fantastic machines which would do
their work for them while they grazed at their ease in the fields or
improved their minds with reading and conversation.
Within a few weeks Snowball’s plans for the windmill were fully
worked out. The mechanical details came mostly from three books
which had belonged to Mr. Jones – One Thousand Useful Things to Do
About the House, Every Man His Own Bricklayer, and Electricity for
Beginners. Snowball used as his study a shed which had once been used
for incubators and had a smooth wooden floor, suitable for drawing on.
He was closeted there for hours at a time. With his books held open by
a stone, and with a piece of chalk gripped between the knuckles of his
trotter, he would move rapidly to and fro, drawing in line after line and
uttering little whimpers of excitement. Gradually the plans grew into a
complicated mass of cranks and cog-wheels, covering more than half
the floor, which the other animals found completely unintelligible but
very impressive. All of them came to look at Snowball’s drawings at
least once a day. Even the hens and ducks came, and were at pains not
to tread on the chalk marks. Only Napoleon held aloof. He had declared
himself against the windmill from the start. One day, however, he
arrived unexpectedly to examine the plans. He walked heavily round
the shed, looked closely at every detail of the plans and snuffed at them
once or twice, then stood for a little while contemplating them out of
the corner of his eye; then suddenly he lifted his leg, urinated over the
plans, and walked out without uttering a word.
The whole farm was deeply divided on the subject of the windmill.
Snowball did not deny that to build it would be a difficult business.
Stone would have to be carried and built up into walls, then the sails
would have to be made and after that there would be need for dynamos
and cables. (How these were to be procured, Snowball did not say.) But
he maintained that it could all be done in a year. And thereafter, he

declared, so much labour would be saved that the animals would only
need to work three days a week. Napoleon, on the other hand, argued
that the great need of the moment was to increase food production, and
that if they wasted time on the windmill they would all starve to death.
The animals formed themselves into two factions under the slogan,
“Vote for Snowball and the three-day week” and “Vote for Napoleon
and the full manger.” Benjamin was the only animal who did not side
with either faction. He refused to believe either that food would become
more plentiful or that the windmill would save work. Windmill or no
windmill, he said, life would go on as it had always gone on-that is,
badly.
Apart from the disputes over the windmill, there was the question of the
defence of the farm. It was fully realised that though the human beings
had been defeated in the Battle of the Cowshed they might make
another and more determined attempt to recapture the farm and
reinstate Mr. Jones. They had all the more reason for doing so because
the news of their defeat had spread across the countryside and made the
animals on the neighbouring farms more restive than ever. As usual,
Snowball and Napoleon were in disagreement. According to Napoleon,
what the animals must do was to procure firearms and train themselves
in the use of them. According to Snowball, they must send out more
and more pigeons and stir up rebellion among the animals on the other
farms. The one argued that if they could not defend themselves they
were bound to be conquered, the other argued that if rebellions
happened everywhere they would have no need to defend themselves.
The animals listened first to Napoleon, then to Snowball, and could not
make up their minds which was right; indeed, they always found
themselves in agreement with the one who was speaking at the
moment.
At last the day came when Snowball’s plans were completed. At the
Meeting on the following Sunday the question of whether or not to
begin work on the windmill was to be put to the vote. When the
animals had assembled in the big barn, Snowball stood up and, though
occasionally interrupted by bleating from the sheep, set forth his
reasons for advocating the building of the windmill. Then Napoleon
stood up to reply. He said very quietly that the windmill was nonsense
and that he advised nobody to vote for it, and promptly sat down again;
he had spoken for barely thirty seconds, and seemed almost indifferent
as to the effect he produced. At this Snowball sprang to his feet, and

shouting down the sheep, who had begun bleating again, broke into a
passionate appeal in favour of the windmill. Until now the animals had
been about equally divided in their sympathies, but in a moment
Snowball’s eloquence had carried them away. In glowing sentences he
painted a picture of Animal Farm as it might be when sordid labour was
lifted from the animals’ backs. His imagination had now run far beyond
chaff-cutters and turnip-slicers. Electricity, he said, could operate
threshing machines, ploughs, harrows, rollers, and reapers and binders,
besides supplying every stall with its own electric light, hot and cold
water, and an electric heater. By the time he had finished speaking,
there was no doubt as to which way the vote would go. But just at this
moment Napoleon stood up and, casting a peculiar sidelong look at
Snowball, uttered a high-pitched whimper of a kind no one had ever
heard him utter before.
At this there was a terrible baying sound outside, and nine enormous
dogs wearing brass-studded collars came bounding into the barn. They
dashed straight for Snowball, who only sprang from his place just in
time to escape their snapping jaws. In a moment he was out of the door
and they were after him. Too amazed and frightened to speak, all the
animals crowded through the door to watch the chase. Snowball was
racing across the long pasture that led to the road. He was running as
only a pig can run, but the dogs were close on his heels. Suddenly he
slipped and it seemed certain that they had him. Then he was up again,
running faster than ever, then the dogs were gaining on him again. One
of them all but closed his jaws on Snowball’s tail, but Snowball
whisked it free just in time. Then he put on an extra spurt and, with a
few inches to spare, slipped through a hole in the hedge and was seen
no more.
Silent and terrified, the animals crept back into the barn. In a moment
the dogs came bounding back. At first no one had been able to imagine
where these creatures came from, but the problem was soon solved:
they were the puppies whom Napoleon had taken away from their
mothers and reared privately. Though not yet full-grown, they were
huge dogs, and as fierce-looking as wolves. They kept close to
Napoleon. It was noticed that they wagged their tails to him in the same
way as the other dogs had been used to do to Mr. Jones.
Napoleon, with the dogs following him, now mounted on to the raised
portion of the floor where Major had previously stood to deliver his
speech. He announced that from now on the Sunday-morning Meetings

would come to an end. They were unnecessary, he said, and wasted
time. In future all questions relating to the working of the farm would
be settled by a special committee of pigs, presided over by himself.
These would meet in private and afterwards communicate their
decisions to the others. The animals would still assemble on Sunday
mornings to salute the flag, sing Beasts of England, and receive their
orders for the week; but there would be no more debates.
In spite of the shock that Snowball’s expulsion had given them, the
animals were dismayed by this announcement. Several of them would
have protested if they could have found the right arguments. Even
Boxer was vaguely troubled. He set his ears back, shook his forelock
several times, and tried hard to marshal his thoughts; but in the end he
could not think of anything to say. Some of the pigs themselves,
however, were more articulate. Four young porkers in the front row
uttered shrill squeals of disapproval, and all four of them sprang to their
feet and began speaking at once. But suddenly the dogs sitting round
Napoleon let out deep, menacing growls, and the pigs fell silent and sat
down again. Then the sheep broke out into a tremendous bleating of
“Four legs good, two legs bad!” which went on for nearly a quarter of
an hour and put an end to any chance of discussion.
Afterwards Squealer was sent round the farm to explain the new
arrangement to the others.
“Comrades,” he said, “I trust that every animal here appreciates the
sacrifice that Comrade Napoleon has made in taking this extra labour
upon himself. Do not imagine, comrades, that leadership is a pleasure!
On the contrary, it is a deep and heavy responsibility. No one believes
more firmly than Comrade Napoleon that all animals are equal. He
would be only too happy to let you make your decisions for yourselves.
But sometimes you might make the wrong decisions, comrades, and
then where should we be? Suppose you had decided to follow
Snowball, with his moonshine of windmills-Snowball, who, as we now
know, was no better than a criminal?”
“He fought bravely at the Battle of the Cowshed,” said somebody.
“Bravery is not enough,” said Squealer. “Loyalty and obedience are
more important. And as to the Battle of the Cowshed, I believe the time
will come when we shall find that Snowball’s part in it was much
exaggerated. Discipline, comrades, iron discipline! That is the
watchword for today. One false step, and our enemies would be upon

us. Surely, comrades, you do not want Jones back?”
Once again this argument was unanswerable. Certainly the animals did
not want Jones back; if the holding of debates on Sunday mornings was
liable to bring him back, then the debates must stop. Boxer, who had
now had time to think things over, voiced the general feeling by saying:
“If Comrade Napoleon says it, it must be right.” And from then on he
adopted the maxim, “Napoleon is always right,” in addition to his
private motto of “I will work harder.”
By this time the weather had broken and the spring ploughing had
begun. The shed where Snowball had drawn his plans of the windmill
had been shut up and it was assumed that the plans had been rubbed off
the floor. Every Sunday morning at ten o’clock the animals assembled
in the big barn to receive their orders for the week. The skull of old
Major, now clean of flesh, had been disinterred from the orchard and
set up on a stump at the foot of the flagstaff, beside the gun. After the
hoisting of the flag, the animals were required to file past the skull in a
reverent manner before entering the barn. Nowadays they did not sit all
together as they had done in the past. Napoleon, with Squealer and
another pig named Minimus, who had a remarkable gift for composing
songs and poems, sat on the front of the raised platform, with the nine
young dogs forming a semicircle round them, and the other pigs sitting
behind. The rest of the animals sat facing them in the main body of the
barn. Napoleon read out the orders for the week in a gruff soldierly
style, and after a single singing of Beasts of England, all the animals
dispersed.
On the third Sunday after Snowball’s expulsion, the animals were
somewhat surprised to hear Napoleon announce that the windmill was
to be built after all. He did not give any reason for having changed his
mind, but merely warned the animals that this extra task would mean
very hard work, it might even be necessary to reduce their rations. The
plans, however, had all been prepared, down to the last detail. A special
committee of pigs had been at work upon them for the past three weeks.
The building of the windmill, with various other improvements, was
expected to take two years.
That evening Squealer explained privately to the other animals that
Napoleon had never in reality been opposed to the windmill. On the
contrary, it was he who had advocated it in the beginning, and the plan
which Snowball had drawn on the floor of the incubator shed had

actually been stolen from among Napoleon’s papers. The windmill was,
in fact, Napoleon’s own creation. Why, then, asked somebody, had he
spoken so strongly against it? Here Squealer looked very sly. That, he
said, was Comrade Napoleon’s cunning. He had seemed to oppose the
windmill, simply as a manoeuvre to get rid of Snowball, who was a
dangerous character and a bad influence. Now that Snowball was out of
the way, the plan could go forward without his interference. This, said
Squealer, was something called tactics. He repeated a number of times,
“Tactics, comrades, tactics!” skipping round and whisking his tail with
a merry laugh. The animals were not certain what the word meant, but
Squealer spoke so persuasively, and the three dogs who happened to be
with him growled so threateningly, that they accepted his explanation
without further questions.

Chapter 5 of “Animal Farm” delves deeper into the evolving dynamics on the farm, portraying a tale of intrigue and manipulation among the animals.

The chapter begins with Mollie, a horse, exhibiting peculiar behavior. She frequently arrives late for work, offers excuses of oversleeping, and complains of mysterious pains despite maintaining a healthy appetite. Mollie’s distractions escalate as she spends excessive time admiring her reflection in the water and frequently absconds to the drinking pool. Rumors of her involvement with humans, particularly Mr. Pilkington’s man, surface, suggesting her growing disloyalty to the principles of Animalism.

Clover, a wise mare, confronts Mollie about her suspicious behavior, revealing her observation of Mollie consorting with a human. Mollie vehemently denies the accusation but fails to meet Clover’s gaze, indicating her guilt before fleeing into the fields.

Soon after, Mollie disappears entirely, leaving the farm and embracing the comforts of human indulgence, symbolized by her presence alongside a fat, red-faced man outside a public house. Despite initial concern, the animals gradually forget about Mollie, signaling the community’s rejection of those who betray their revolutionary ideals.

The narrative then shifts to the internal conflicts among the pigs, primarily revolving around the construction of a windmill. Snowball advocates for the project, envisioning its potential to revolutionize the farm’s operations and improve the animals’ lives. He diligently sketches plans for the windmill, drawing inspiration from his readings of human literature and technological advancements.

In contrast, Napoleon opposes the windmill, disputing its necessity and emphasizing the immediate priority of food production. Their disagreements escalate into heated debates, reflective of broader ideological divisions within the animal community.

Snowball’s earnest efforts to advance the windmill project underscore his dedication to the collective welfare of the animals. His detailed plans and persuasive speeches attract widespread support, particularly from those eager for a better future.

However, Napoleon, motivated by a desire for absolute control, employs cunning tactics to undermine Snowball’s influence. He initially feigns opposition to the windmill, only to reverse his stance later, exploiting the opportunity to discredit Snowball and consolidate power for himself.

Squealer, Napoleon’s loyal propagandist, manipulates the animals’ perceptions, portraying Napoleon’s deceitful maneuvering as strategic leadership. With persuasive rhetoric and the backing of intimidating canine enforcers, Squealer convinces the animals to accept Napoleon’s authority unquestioningly.

Despite lingering confusion among the animals, they succumb to Squealer’s persuasive explanations, relinquishing their autonomy and placing blind trust in Napoleon’s leadership. The chapter concludes with the animals resuming their work, resigned to the authority of their pig overlords and unaware of the darker schemes unfolding behind the scenes.

Throughout Chapter 5, George Orwell masterfully portrays the complexities of power struggles and propaganda, illustrating how manipulation and deceit can undermine the ideals of equality and unity, leading to the erosion of freedom and individual agency.