During these last decades the interest in professional fasting has markedly diminished. It used to pay very well to stage such great performances under one’s own management, but today that is quite impossible. We live in a different world now. At one time the whole town took a lively interest in the hunger artist; from day to day of his fast the excitement mounted; everybody wanted to see him at least once a day; there were people who bought season tickets for the last few days and sat from morning till night in front of his small barred cage; even in the nighttime there were visiting hours, when the whole effect was heightened by torch flares; on fine days the cage was set out in the open air, and then it was the children’s special
treat to see the hunger artist; for their elders he was often just a joke that happened to be in fashion, but the children stood openmouthed, holding each other’s hands for greater security, marveling at him as he sat there pallid in black tights, with his ribs sticking out so prominently, not even on a seat but down
among straw on the ground, sometimes giving a courteous nod, answering questions with a constrained smile, or perhaps stretching an arm through the bars so that one might feel how thin it was, and then again withdrawing deep into himself, paying no attention to anyone or anything, not even to the all-important
striking of the clock that was the only piece of furniture in his cage, but merely staring into vacancy with
half-shut eyes, now and then taking a sip from a tiny glass of water to moisten his lips. Besides casual onlookers there were also relays of permanent watchers selected by the public, usually
butchers, strangely enough, and it was their task to watch the hunger artist day and night, three of them
at a time, in case he should have some secret recourse to nourishment. This was nothing but a formality,
instigated to reassure the masses, for the initiates knew well enough that during his fast the artist would
never in any circumstances, not even under forcible compulsion, swallow the smallest morsel of food;
the honor of his profession forbade it. Not every watcher, of course, was capable of understanding this,
there were often groups of night watchers who were very lax in carrying out their duties and deliberately
huddled together in a retired corner to play cards with great absorption, obviously intending to give the
hunger artist the chance of a little refreshment, which they supposed he would draw from some private
hoard. Nothing annoyed the artist more than these watchers; they made him miserable; they made his fast
seem unendurable; sometimes he mastered his feebleness sufficiently to sing during their watch for as long
as he could keep going, to show them how unjust their suspicions were. But that was of little use; they
only wondered at his cleverness in being able to fill his mouth even while singing. Much more to his taste
were the watchers who sat close up to the bars, who were not content with the dim night lighting of the
hall but focused him in the full glare of the electric pocket torch given them by the impresario. The harsh
light did not trouble him at all, in any case he could never sleep properly, and he could always drowse a
little, whatever the light, at any hour, even when the hall was thronged with noisy onlookers. He was quite
happy at the prospect of spending a sleepless night with such watchers; he was ready to exchange jokes
with them, to tell them stories out of his nomadic life, anything at all to keep them awake and demonstrate
to them again that he had no eatables in his cage and that he was fasting as not one of them could fast. But
his happiest moment was when the morning came and an enormous breakfast was brought for them, at
his expense, on which they flung themselves with the keen appetite of healthy men after a weary night of
wakefulness. Of course there were people who argued that this breakfast was an unfair attempt to bribe the
watchers, but that was going rather too far, and when they were invited to take on a night’s vigil without a
breakfast, merely for the sake of the cause, they made themselves scarce, although they stuck stubbornly
to their suspicions.
Such suspicions, anyhow, were a necessary accompaniment to the profession of fasting. No one could
possibly watch the hunger artist continuously, day and night, and so no one could produce first-hand evidence that the fast had really been rigorous and continuous; only the artist himself could know that, he
was therefore bound to be the sole completely satisfied spectator of his own fast. Yet for other reasons he
was never satisfied; it was not perhaps mere fasting that had brought him to such skeleton thinness that
many people had regretfully to keep away from his exhibitions, because the sight of him was too much for
them, perhaps it was dissatisfaction with himself that had worn him down. For he alone knew, what no
other initiate knew, how easy it was to fast. It was the easiest thing in the world. He made no secret of this,
yet people did not believe him, at best they set him down as modest, most of them, however, thought he
was out for publicity or else was some kind of cheat who found it easy to fast because he had discovered
a way of making it easy, and then had the impudence to admit the fact, more or less. He had to put up
with all that, and in the course of time had got used to it, but his inner dissatisfaction always rankled, and
never yet, after any term of fasting—this must be granted to his credit—had he left the cage of his own
free will. The longest period of fasting was fixed by his impresario at forty days, beyond that term he was
not allowed to go, not even in great cities, and there was good reason for it, too. Experience had proven
that for about forty days the interest of the public could be stimulated by a steadily increasing pressure of
advertisement, but after that the town began to lose interest, sympathetic support began notably to fall off;
there were of course local variations as between one town and another or one country and another, but as
a general rule forty days marked the limit. So on the fortieth day the flower-bedecked cage was opened,
enthusiastic spectators filled the hall, a military band played, two doctors entered the cage to measure the
results of the fast, which were announced through a megaphone, and finally two young ladies appeared,
blissful at having been selected for the honor, to help the hunger artist down the few steps leading to a
small table on which was spread a carefully chosen invalid repast. And at this very moment the artist
always turned stubborn. True, he would entrust his bony arms to the outstretched helping hands of the
ladies bending over him, but stand up he would not. Why stop fasting at this particular moment, after forty
days of it? He had held out for a long time, an illimitably long time, why stop now, when he was in his
best fasting form, or rather, not yet quite in is bet fasting form? Why should he be cheated of the fame
he would get for fasting longer, for being not only the record hunger artist of all time, which presumably
he was already, but for beating his own record by a performance beyond human imagination, since he
felt that there were no limits to his capacity for fasting? His public pretended to admire him so much,
why should it have so little patience with him; if he could endure fasting longer, why shouldn’t the public
endure it? Besides, he was tired, he was comfortable sitting in the straw, and now he was supposed to lift
himself to his full height and go down to a meal the very thought of which gave him a nausea that only the
presence of the ladies kept him from betraying, and even that with an effort. And he looked up into the
eyes of the ladies who were apparently so friendly and in reality so cruel, and shook his head, which felt
too heavy on its strengthless neck. But then there happened again what always happened. The impresario
came forward, without a word—for the band made speech impossible—lifted his arms in the air above the
artist, as if inviting Heaven to look down upon this creature here in the straw, this suffering martyr, which
indeed he was, although in quite another sense; grasped him around the emaciated waist, with exaggerated
caution, so that the frail condition he was in might be appreciated; and committed him to the care of the
blenching ladies, not without secretly giving him a shaking so that his legs and body tottered and swayed.
The artist now submitted completely; his head lolled on his breast as if it had landed there by chance; his
body was hollowed out; his legs in a spasm of self-preservation clung close to each other at the knees, yet
scraped on the ground as if it were not really solid ground, as if they were only trying to find solid ground;
and the whole weight of his body, a featherweight after all, relapsed onto one of the ladies, who, looking
around for help and panting a little—this post of honor was not at all what she had expected it to be—first
stretched her neck as far as she could to keep her face at least free from contact with the artist, then finding
this impossible, and her more fortunate companion not coming to her aid but merely holding extended in
her own trembling hand the little bunch of knucklebones that was the artist’s, to the great delight of the spectators burst into tears and had to be replaced by an attendant who had long been stationed in readiness.
Then came the food, a little of which the impresario managed to get between the artist’s lips, while he sat
in a kind of half-fainting trance, to the accompaniment of cheerful patter designed to distract to public’s
attention for the artist’s condition; after that, a toast was drunk to the public, supposedly prompted by a
whisper from the artist in the impresario’s ear; the band confirmed it with a mighty flourish, the spectators
melted away, and no one had any cause to be dissatisfied with the proceedings, no one except the hunger
artist himself, he only, as always.
So he lived for many years, with small regular intervals of recuperation, in visible glory, honored by the
world, yet in spite of that, troubled in spirit, and all the more troubled because no-one would take his
trouble seriously. What comfort could he possibly need? What more could he possibly wish for? And if
some good-natured person, feeling sorry for him, tried to console him by pointing out that his melancholy
was probably caused by fasting, it could happen, especially when he had been fasting for some time, that
he reacted with an outburst of fury and to the general alarm began to shake the bars of his cage like a
wild animal. Yet the impresario had a way of punishing these outbreaks which he rather enjoyed putting
into operation. He would apologize publicly for the artist’s behaviour, which was only to be excused, he
admitted, because of the irritability caused by fasting; a condition hardly to be understood by well-fed
people; then by natural transition he went on to mention the artist’s equally incomprehensible boast that
he could fast for much longer than he was doing; he praised the high ambition, the good will, the great
self-denial undoubtedly implicit in such a statement; and then quite simply countered it by bringing out
photographs, which were also on sale to the public, showing the artist on the fortieth day of a fast lying in
bed almost dead from exhaustion. This perversion of the truth, familiar to the artist though it was, always
unnerved him afresh and proved too much for him. What was a consequence of the premature ending of
his fast was here presented as the cause of it! To fight against this lack of understanding, against a whole
world of non-understanding, was impossible. Time and again in good faith he stood by the bars listening
to the impresario, but as soon as the photographs appeared he always let go and sank with a groan back
onto his straw, and the reassured public could once more come close and gaze at him.
A few years later when the witnesses of such scenes called them to mind, they often failed to understand
themselves at all. For meanwhile the aforementioned change in public interest had set in; it seemed
to happen almost overnight; there may have been profound causes for it, but who was going to bother
about that; at any rate the pampered hunger artist suddenly found himself deserted on fine day by the
amusement-seekers, who went streaming past him to other more-favored attractions. For the last time the
impresario hurried him over half Europe to discover whether the old interest might still survive here and
there; all in vain; everywhere, as if by secret agreement, a positive revulsion from professional fasting was
in evidence. Of course it could not really have sprung up so suddenly as all that, and many premonitory
symptoms which had not been sufficiently remarked or suppressed during the rush and glitter of success
now came retrospectively to mind, but it was now too late to take any countermeasures. Fasting would
surely come into fashion again at some future date, yet that was no comfort for those living in the present.
What, then, was the hunger artist to do? He had been applauded by thousands in his time and could hardly
come down to showing himself in a street booth at village fairs, and as for adopting another profession, he
was not only too old for that but too fanatically devoted to fasting. So he took leave of the impresario, his
partner in an unparalleled career, and hired himself to a large circus; in order to spare his own feelings he
avoided reading the conditions of his contract.
A large circus with its enormous traffic in replacing and recruiting men, animals, and apparatus can always
find a use for people at any time, even for a hunger artist, provided of course that he does not ask too much,
and in this particular case anyhow it was not only the artist who was taken on but his famous and long