Once the large crowds had passed， the late comers wouldarrive， and although there was nothing preventing these peopleany more from sticking around for as long as they wanted，they rushed past with long strides， almost without a sidewaysglance， to get to the animals in time. And it was an all-too-rarestroke of luck when the father of a family came by with hischildren， pointed his finger at the hunger artist， gave a detailedexplanation about what was going on here， and talked of earlieryears， when he had been present at similar but incomparablymore magnificent performances， and then the children，because they had been inadequately prepared at school andin life， always stood around still uncomprehendingly. Whatwas fasting to them？ But nonetheless the brightness of thelook in their searching eyes revealed something of new andmore gracious times coming. Perhaps， the hunger artist saidto himself sometimes， everything would be a little better if hislocation were not quite so near the animal stalls. That way itwould be easy for people to make their choice， to say nothingof the fact that he was very upset and constantly depressedby the stink from the stalls， the animals’ commotion at night，the pieces of raw meat dragged past him for the carnivorousbeasts， and the roars at feeding time. But he did not dare toapproach the administration about it. In any case， he had theanimals to thank for the crowds of visitors among whom，here and there， there could be one destined for him. And whoknew where they would hide him if he wished to remind themof his existence and， along with that， of the fact that， strictlyspeaking， he was only an obstacle on the way to the menagerie.
A small obstacle， at any rate， a constantly diminishingobstacle. People got used to the strange notion that in thesetimes they would want to pay attention to a hunger artist，and with this habitual awareness the judgment on him waspronounced. He might fast as well as he could—and he did—but nothing could save him any more. People went straight pasthim. Try to explain the art of fasting to anyone！ If someonedoesn’t feel it， then he cannot be made to understand it. Thebeautiful signs became dirty and illegible. People tore themdown， and no one thought of replacing them. The small tablewith the number of days the fasting had lasted， which early onhad been carefully renewed every day， remained unchanged fora long time， for after the first weeks the staff grew tired of eventhis small task. And so the hunger artist kept fasting on and on，as he once had dreamed about in earlier times， and he had nodifficulty succeeding in achieving what he had predicted backthen， but no one was counting the days—no one， not eventhe hunger artist himself， knew how great his achievementwas by this point， and his heart grew heavy. And when oncein a while a person strolling past stood there making fun ofthe old number and talking of a swindle， that was in a sensethe stupidest lie which indifference and innate maliciousnesscould invent， for the hunger artist was not being deceptive—hewas working honestly—but the world was cheating him of hisreward.
Many days went by once more， and this， too， came to an end.
Finally the cage caught the attention of a supervisor， and heasked the attendant why they had left this perfectly useful cagestanding here unused with rotting straw inside. Nobody knew，until one man， with the help of the table with the number on it，remembered the hunger artist. They pushed the straw aroundwith a pole and found the hunger artist there. “Are you stillfasting？” the supervisor asked. “When are you finally goingto stop？” “Forgive me everything，” whispered the hungerartist. Only the supervisor， who was pressing his ear up againstthe cage， understood him. “Certainly，” said the supervisor，tapping his forehead with his finger in order to indicate to thespectators the state the hunger artist was in， “we forgive you.”
“I always wanted you to admire my fasting，” said the hungerartist. “But we do admire it，” said the supervisor obligingly.
“But you shouldn’t admire it，” said the hunger artist. “Wellthen， we don’t admire it，” said the supervisor， “but whyshouldn’t we admire it？” “Because I had to fast. I can’t doanything else，” said the hunger artist. “Just look at you，” saidthe supervisor， “why can’t you do anything else？” “Because，”
said the hunger artist， lifting his head a little and， with his lipspursed as if for a kiss， speaking right into the supervisor’s earso that he wouldn’t miss anything， “because I couldn’t find afood which I enjoyed. If had found that， believe me， I wouldnot have made a spectacle of myself and would have eaten tomy heart’s content， like you and everyone else.” Those werehis last words， but in his failing eyes there was the firm， if nolonger proud， conviction that he was continuing to fast.
“All right， tidy this up now，” said the supervisor. And theyburied the hunger artist along with the straw. But in his cagethey put a young panther. Even for a person with the dullestmind it was clearly refreshing to see this wild animal throwingitself around in this cage， which had been dreary for such along time. It lacked nothing. Without thinking about it for anylength of time， the guards brought the animal food. It enjoyedthe taste and never seemed to miss its freedom. This noblebody， equipped with everything necessary， almost to the pointof bursting， also appeared to carry freedom around with it.
That seem to be located somewhere or other in its teeth， andits joy in living came with such strong passion from its throatthat it was not easy for spectators to keep watching. But theycontrolled themselves， kept pressing around the cage， and hadno desire to move on.
（Translated by Ian John）
