Spain, v. 1 (of 2)

by Edmondo De Amicis

They all shout and wave their hands, and signal to each other with their canes; the bets cross in every direction, and in a few moments there are a thousand francs at stake.

The two cocks do not look at each other at first. One turns in one direction, the other looks the opposite way; they crow, and crane their necks toward the spectators, as if they are asking, “What do you want?” Little by little, without making any sign of having seen each other, they approach; it seems as though one is trying to take the other by surprise; suddenly, as quick as a flash, they spring at each other with open wings, strike in the air, and separate in a cloud of feathers. After the first encounter they stop and plant themselves one before the other, with their heads and beaks almost touching, motionless, and looking fixedly, as though they wish to poison each other with their eyes. Then they dash together again with great violence, and after that the attacks follow without interruption.

They strike with their talons, spurs, and beaks; clasp each other with their wings, so that they look like one cock with two heads; they dodge under each other, strike against the wires of the cage, chase each other, fall, slip, and fly. Soon the blows fall faster; feathers fly from their heads; their necks turn as red as fire and they begin to bleed. Then they fall to pecking each other on the head, around and in the eyes; they tear the flesh with the fury of two maniacs afraid of being separated; they seem to know that one of them must die; they utter not a sound or a groan; one hears only the beating of their wings, the sound of breaking feathers and of beaks striking the bones; there is not a moment’s respite; it is a fury which leads only to death.

The spectators watch all their motions intently, count the fallen feathers, and number the wounds, and the shouting becomes all the time more excited and the wagers heavier: “Five crowns on the little one!”—“Eight crowns on the gray!”—“Twenty crowns on the black!”—“Done”—“Done!”

At a certain point one of the cocks makes a motion that betrays his inferior strength and begins to show signs of weakening. While he still resists his pecks become slower, the strokes of his spurs feebler, and his springs lower. He seems to know that he must die. He fights no longer to kill, but to keep from being killed, retreats, flees, falls, raises himself, returns to fall again, reels as though seized with vertigo. Then the spectacle begins to grow horrible. Before the failing enemy the victor grows fiercer; his pecks fall fast and furious, striking the eyes of his victim with the regularity of the needle of a sewing-machine; his neck flies back and forth with the strength of a spring; his beak seizes the flesh, twists and tears it, then darts into the wound as if seeking for the most secret fibre; then he pecks the head again and again as though he wishes to crack the skull and tear out the brain. There are no words to express the horror of that pecking, continuous, insatiable, inexorable. The victim defends himself, flees, and runs around the cage, and after him, beside him, hovering over him like a shadow, with his head stretched over that of the fugitive, follows the victor like a confessor, always pecking, piercing, and tearing. He has about him the air of a jailer and executioner; he seems to be whispering in the ear of his victim and to accompany every blow with an insult: “There! take that! suffer! die! No! live; take this blow and this, and still another!” A little of the cock’s sanguinary fury is instilled into your veins; that cowardly cruelty inspires a longing for revenge; one would strangle the creature with one’s hands and crush its head with one’s feet. The conquered cock, all bedraggled with blood, featherless, and tottering, still tries now and then to return the attack, gives a few pecks, turns to flee, and dashes against the irons of the railing to find a way of escape.

The bettors become more excited and shout even louder than before. They can no longer bet on the struggle, and so begin to bet on the agony: “Five crowns that it does not make three attacks!”—“Ten crowns that it does not make five!”—“Four crowns that it does not make two!”—“Done!”—“Done!”

At this point I heard a remark which made me shudder: “Es ciego!” (“It is blind.”)

I approached the netting, looked at the conquered cock, and averted my face in horror. It had no skin, it had no eyes; its neck was only a bloody bone, its head a skull; its wings, reduced to three or four feathers, hung down like two rags; it seemed impossible that wounded as it was it could still live and walk; it no longer had any form.

Nevertheless, that remnant, that monster, that skeleton dripping with blood, still defended itself and fought on in the dark, raising its broken wings like two stumps, stretching out its fleshless neck, shaking its skull at random, here and there, like a new-born puppy.

It was so disgusting and horrible that I closed my eyes to blur the sight. And the executioner continued to peck at the wounds, to pierce its eyeballs and beat its naked skull; it was no longer a fight; it was torture; it seemed as though the cock wished to torment without killing; sometimes, when its victim remained still for a moment, it bent over and examined it with the scrutiny of an anatomist; sometimes it stepped off and looked down at it with the indifference of a grave-digger; then, again, it would leap upon it with the greed of a vampire, peck, suck, and tear it as vigorously as at first. Finally, the dying fowl stopped suddenly, bent its head to the ground as though overcome by sleep, and its executioner looked at it attentively and desisted.