XII

1. You ask, perhaps, whom I call the busy? There is no need to think I mean only those whom the dogs of the basilica drive out at last, whom you see crushed more conspicuously in their own crowd or more contemptibly in another's, whom their duties summon from their own houses to knock at others' doors — or whom the praetor's wand keeps busy over shameful gain and an abscess that will one day break.

2. Some men's leisure is occupied: in their country house or on their couch, in the midst of solitude, though they have withdrawn from all, they are a burden to themselves — a life to be called not idle but busy idleness. Do you call that man at leisure who carves up Corinthian bronzes, precious to a few men's madness, with anxious fastidiousness, and spends the better part of his days over rusty plates? Who sits in the wrestling-school — shame on it, we do not even labor under Roman vices! — a spectator of boys brawling? Who breeds his herds of mares in matched ages and colors? Who feeds the latest athletes?

3. And those you call at leisure, who pass many hours at the barber while whatever grew in the night is plucked away, while each single hair is deliberated, while disordered locks are restored or a thinning one is combed from here and there onto the brow? How they rage if the barber was a little careless, as if a man were being sheared! How they blaze if anything has been cut from their mane, if anything lies out of order, unless everything falls back into its rings! Who of these would not rather see the republic disturbed than his own hair? Who is not more anxious about the polish of his head than of his health? Who would rather be neat than honorable? Do you call these men at leisure — busy over a comb and a mirror?

4. And those who have labored at composing, hearing, learning songs, who twist a voice that nature made straight, and best, and simplest, into the bendings of the laziest modulation — whose fingers, measuring out some song within themselves, are always sounding — whose silent humming is heard even when they are called to serious matters, often to sad ones! These have no leisure, but idle business.

5. Their dinner-parties, by Hercules, I should not rank among free times, when I see how anxiously they set out the silver, how carefully they gird the tunics of their minions, how they hang suspended as a boar comes out of the cook's hands, how fast, at a signal, the smooth-cheeked boys run to their services, with what art birds are carved into moderate portions, how wretched little slaves carefully wipe up the spittle of the drunk. On these they stake their name for elegance and refinement; and their evils follow them into every retreat of life so far that they cannot drink without rivalry nor eat without it.

6. Nor should you count among the at leisure those who carry themselves here and there in a chair and a litter, and keep appointments with their own litters — as if it were not permitted to forsake them — whom another must remind when they should bathe, when swim, when dine. So dissolved are they by the languor of a too-delicate mind that they cannot know by themselves whether they hunger.

7. I hear one of these spoiled creatures — if a life may be called spoiled that has unlearned human habit — when he had been carried from the bath and set in his chair, say to one asking: "Am I sitting now?" Do you think this man, who does not know whether he is sitting, knows whether he is alive, whether he sees, whether he is at leisure? Hard to say which I should pity more — that he did not know, or that he pretended not to know.

8. They feel forgetfulness of many things, but they also feign it; certain vices delight them as proofs of felicity: it seems the part of a low and contemptible man to know what you are doing. Go now, believe the mimes tell many lies to reproach luxury! More things pass over, by Hercules, than they invent; such a stock of incredible vices has grown up in this one ingenious age that we may already reproach the mimes for negligence — that anyone has so rotted into luxury that he believes of another whether he is sitting!

9. This man, then, is not at leisure — give him another name: he is sick, no, dead. That man is at leisure whose sense of his own leisure is awake. This half-alive one, who needs a monitor to understand the posture of his own body — how can he be master of any time?

1. You ask, maybe, who exactly I mean by the busy? Don't think I only mean the men the dogs finally chase out of the courthouse — the ones you see knocked down in their own crowd more elegantly than in anyone else's, or whose duties drag them from their own homes to pound on other people's doors, or whom the magistrate's staff keeps working for shameful, someday-festering profit.

2. Some people's free time is busy too: out at the country house or lying on the couch, alone in total solitude, they're a burden to themselves even though they've left everyone behind. That's not an idle life — that's lazy busyness. Do you call him at leisure, the man who carves up Corinthian bronzes — precious to the madness of a few — with anxious precision, spending most of his days over rusty metal sheets? Who sits in the wrestling yard — disgraceful, we don't even suffer Roman vices! — watching boys fight? Who breeds his teams of mules in matching ages and colors? Who feeds the newest athletes?

3. What about the ones you call at leisure who spend hours at the barber while everything that grew overnight gets plucked, while each single hair is discussed, while tangled hair is rearranged or thinning hair is combed up from both sides onto the forehead? How furious they get if the barber slipped a little — as if a real man were being sheared! How they explode if anything was cut from their mane, or lies out of place, unless every strand falls back into its rings! Who among them wouldn't rather see the republic in chaos than his own haircut? Who worries more about how his head looks than how his health is? Who would rather be well-groomed than honorable? You call these men at leisure — busy over a comb and a mirror?

4. And the ones who work at writing, listening to, and learning songs — who twist a voice that nature made straight and simple and best into the wobbliest musical flourishes, whose fingers measure out some tune inaudibly and never stop sounding, whose humming you can hear even when they're called to serious business, often to sad business. These men have no leisure — just lazy busyness.

5. Their dinner parties, I swear, I'd never count as free time — when I watch how anxiously the silver is arranged, how carefully the servants' tunics are belted, how they hold their breath as the boar is carried in by the cook, how fast the smooth-cheeked boys sprint to their posts at a signal, with what art birds are carved into neat pieces, how patiently the poor little slaves wipe up drunk men's spit. That's where they chase their reputation for taste and luxury. And their troubles follow them into every corner of life: they can't even drink or eat without showing off.

6. Don't count among the idle the ones who get carried here and there in chairs and litters, and keep appointments with their own litters — as if they weren't allowed to miss them — the ones who need somebody else to tell them when to bathe, when to swim, when to eat. They've gone so soft from the weakness of their pampered minds that they can't tell on their own whether they're hungry.

7. I hear one of these delicate souls — if a life that's unlearned human habits deserves the word "delicate" — after being carried out of the bath and set into his chair, asked out loud: "Am I sitting yet?" Do you think a man who doesn't know whether he's sitting knows whether he's alive, whether he can see, whether he's at leisure? Hard to say which I'd pity more: that he didn't know, or that he pretended not to.

8. They genuinely forget things — and they also fake it. Some vices delight them as proof of how rich they are. Knowing what you're doing seems like the mark of a low and worthless person. Go on, believe that the comic actors invent all those lies just to mock luxury! More things happen, I swear, than they make up. The supply of unbelievable vices has grown so big in this one clever age that we could accuse the comedians of laziness — that someone could rot into luxury so deep he leaves it to another man to know whether he's sitting down!

9. So this man is not at leisure — give him a different name: he's sick. No — he's dead. The man at leisure is the one who can feel his own leisure. This half-alive creature, who needs a helper to understand what position his body is in — how can he be master of a single hour?