The impresario had set the maximum length of time for thefast at forty days—he would never allow the fasting go onbeyond that point， not even in the cosmopolitan cities. And，in fact， he had a good reason. Experience had shown thatfor about forty days one could increasingly whip up a city’sinterest by gradually increasing advertising， but that then thepeople turned away—one could demonstrate a significantdecline in popularity. In this respect， there were， of course，small differences among different towns and among differentcountries， but as a rule it was true that forty days was themaximum length of time.
So then on the fortieth day the door of the cage—which wascovered with flowers—was opened， an enthusiastic audiencefilled the amphitheatre， a military band played， two doctorsentered the cage， in order to take the necessary measurementsof the hunger artist， the results were announced to theauditorium through a megaphone， and finally two youngladies arrived， happy about the fact that they were the oneswho had just been selected by lot， seeking to lead the hungerartist down a couple of steps out of the cage， where on a smalltable a carefully chosen hospital meal was laid out. And at thismoment the hunger artist always fought back. Of course， hestill freely laid his bony arms in the helpful outstretched handsof the ladies bending over him， but he did not want to stand up.
Why stop right now after forty days？ He could have kept goingfor even longer， for an unlimited length of time. Why stop rightnow， when he was in his best form， indeed， not yet even in hisbest fasting form？ Why did people want to rob him of the fameof fasting longer， not just so that he could become the greatesthunger artist of all time， which he probably was already， butalso so that he could surpass himself in some unimaginableway， 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 keptfasting longer， why would they not tolerate it？ Then， too，he was tired and felt good sitting in the straw. Now he wassupposed to stand up straight and tall and go to eat， somethingwhich， when he just imagined it， made him feel nauseous rightaway. With great difficulty he repressed mentioning this onlyout of consideration for the women. And he looked up intothe eyes of these women， apparently so friendly but in realityso cruel， and shook his excessively heavy head on his feebleneck.
But then happened what always happened. The impresariocame and in silence—the music made talking impossible—raised his arms over the hunger artist， as if inviting heaven tolook upon its work here on the straw， this unfortunate martyr，something the hunger artist certainly was， only in a completelydifferent sense， then grabbed the hunger artist around his thinwaist， in the process wanting with his exaggerated caution tomake people believe that here he had to deal with somethingfragile， and handed him over—not without secretly shakinghim a little， so that the hunger artist’s legs and upper bodyswung back and forth uncontrollably—to the women， whohad in the meantime turned as pale as death. At this point， thehunger artist endured everything. His head lay on his chest—itwas as if it had inexplicably rolled around and just stoppedthere—his body was arched back， his legs， in an impulse ofself-preservation， pressed themselves together at the knees，but scraped the ground， as if they were not really on the floorbut were looking for the real ground， and the entire weight ofhis body， admittedly very small， lay against one of the women，who appealed for help with flustered breath， for she had notimagined her post of honour would be like this， and thenstretched her neck as far as possible， to keep her face fromthe least contact with the hunger artist， but then， when shecouldn’t manage this and her more fortunate companion didn’tcome to her assistance but trembled and remained content tohold in front of her the hunger artist’s hand， that small bundleof knuckles， she broke into tears， to the delighted laughter ofthe auditorium， and had to be relieved by an attendant who hadbeen standing ready for some time. Then came the meal. Theimpresario put a little food into mouth of the hunger artist， nowhalf unconscious， as if fainting， and kept up a cheerful patterdesigned to divert attention away from the hunger artist’scondition. Then a toast was proposed to the public， which wassupposedly whispered to the impresario by the hunger artist，the orchestra confirmed everything with a great fanfare， peopledispersed， and no one had the right to be dissatisfied with theevent， no one except the hunger artist—he was always the onlyone.
He lived this way， taking small regular breaks， for manyyears， apparently in the spotlight， honoured by the world， butfor all that his mood was usually gloomy， and it kept growinggloomier all the time， because no one understood how to takehim seriously. But how was he to find consolation？ What wasthere left for him to wish for？ And if a good-natured manwho felt sorry for him ever wanted to explain to him that hissadness probably came from his fasting， then it could happenthat the hunger artist responded with an outburst of rage andbegan to shake the bars like an animal， frightening everyone.
But the impresario had a way of punishing moments like this，something he was happy to use. He would make an apology forthe hunger artist to the assembled public， conceding that theirritability had been provoked only by his fasting， somethingquite intelligible to well-fed people and capable of excusingthe behaviour of the hunger artist without further explanation.
