A Hunger Artist | Page 2

was, in general, part of fasting that these doubts were
inextricably associated with it. For, in fact, no one was in a position to
spend time watching the hunger artist every day and night, so no one
could know, on the basis of his own observation, whether this was a
case of truly uninterrupted, flawless fasting. The hunger artist himself
was the only one who could know that and, at the same time, the only
spectator capable of being completely satisfied with his own fasting.
But the reason he was never satisfied was something different. Perhaps
it was not fasting at all which made him so very emaciated that many
people, to their own regret, had to stay away from his performance,
because they couldn't bear to look at him. For he was also so skeletal
out of dissatisfaction with himself, because he alone knew something
that even initiates didn't know -- how easy it was to fast. It was the
easiest thing in the world. About this he did not remain silent, but
people did not believe him. At best they thought he was being modest.
Most of them, however, believed he was a publicity seeker or a total
swindler, for whom, at all events, fasting was easy, because he
understood how to make it easy, and then had the nerve to half admit it.
He had to accept all that. Over the years he had become accustomed to
it. But this dissatisfaction kept gnawing at his insides all the time and
never yet -- and this one had to say to his credit -- had he left the cage
of his own free will after any period of fasting.
The impresario had set the maximum length of time for the fast at forty
days -- he would never allow the fasting go on beyond that point, not
even in the cosmopolitan cities. And, in fact, he had a good reason.
Experience had shown that for about forty days one could increasingly
whip up a city's interest by gradually increasing advertising, but that
then the people turned away -- one could demonstrate a significant
decline in popularity. In this respect, there were, of course, small
differences among different towns and among different countries, but
as a rule it was true that forty days was the maximum length of time.

So then on the fortieth day the door of the cage -- which was covered
with flowers -- was opened, an enthusiastic audience filled the
amphitheatre, a military band played, two doctors entered the cage, in
order to take the necessary measurements of the hunger artist, the
results were announced to the auditorium through a megaphone, and
finally two young ladies arrived, happy about the fact that they were the
ones who had just been selected by lot, seeking to lead the hunger artist
down a couple of steps out of the cage, where on a small table a
carefully chosen hospital meal was laid out. And at this moment the
hunger artist always fought back. Of course, he still freely laid his bony
arms in the helpful outstretched hands of the ladies bending over him,
but he did not want to stand up. Why stop right now after forty days?
He could have kept going for even longer, for an unlimited length of
time. Why stop right now, when he was in his best form, indeed, not
yet even in his best fasting form? Why did people want to rob him of
the fame of fasting longer, not just so that he could become the greatest
hunger artist of all time, which he probably was already, but also so
that he could surpass himself in some unimaginable way, for he felt
there were no limits to his capacity for fasting. Why did this crowd,
which pretended to admire him so much, have so little patience with
him? If he kept going and kept fasting longer, why would they not
tolerate it? Then, too, he was tired and felt good sitting in the straw.
Now he was supposed to stand up straight and tall and go to eat,
something which, when he just imagined it, made him feel nauseous
right away. With great difficulty he repressed mentioning this only out
of consideration for the women. And he looked up into the eyes of
these women, apparently so friendly but in reality so cruel, and shook
his excessively heavy head on his feeble neck.
But then happened what always happened. The impresario came and in
silence -- the music made talking impossible -- raised his arms over the
hunger artist, as if inviting heaven to look upon its work here on the
straw, this unfortunate martyr, something the hunger artist certainly
was, only in a completely different sense, then grabbed the hunger