The experience of ages has shown that a man who works on the land

Host: The morning stretched over the Ukrainian fields like a golden sigh. The sun broke through a low quilt of cloud, and the long rows of freshly turned earth steamed gently, exhaling warmth into the air. Crows cawed from the distance, their wings like moving punctuation across the endless horizon. The wind smelled of wet soil — that sweet, honest scent of life beginning again.

In the middle of this vast quiet, Jack stood by an old tractor, its metal frame rusted but proud. His boots were caked in mud, his sleeves rolled up, his face streaked with the dust of labor. Jeeny was a few paces away, kneeling by a furrow, running her fingers through the dirt as though touching something sacred.

The Host’s voice carried across the landscape — deep, reverent, tinged with the rhythm of both toil and truth.

Host: The land remembers everything — the hands that fed it, the blood that stained it, the dreams sown into it. Here, under the open sky, humanity returns to its oldest mirror. Every seed planted is a confession of faith.

Jeeny: softly, almost like a prayer “Nikolai Gogol once said, ‘The experience of ages has shown that a man who works on the land is purer, nobler, higher, and more moral... Agriculture should be at the basis of everything. That's my idea.’”

Jack: leans against the tractor, smirking “Ah, yes. The holy farmer. The myth of moral dirt.”

Jeeny: glancing at him with calm patience “It’s not a myth, Jack. The land humbles you. It teaches balance — gives what you earn, nothing more.”

Jack: flicks mud from his boot “You romanticize hardship. Dirt doesn’t build character — it just stains your clothes. Civilization moved off the fields for a reason.”

Jeeny: smiles faintly “And maybe in doing so, it lost its soul.”

Host: A gust of wind swept across the field, rippling through the early shoots of green. The world seemed to breathe with them.

Jack: shaking his head “You sound like a peasant philosopher. You think tilling soil makes someone purer than the one who builds cities or writes code? It’s labor, not enlightenment.”

Jeeny: standing slowly, brushing soil from her hands “It’s not about the work. It’s about the relationship. When you grow something, you learn consequence. You give, and the earth decides whether to give back. It’s the oldest contract we ever made.”

Jack: dryly “And one we’ve been trying to break ever since.”

Jeeny: quietly “Exactly. Look at us now — drowning in artificial plenty, starving for meaning. We produce everything but understanding.”

Jack: raising an eyebrow “You think a man driving a plow understands the universe better than one building satellites?”

Jeeny: firmly “Maybe he does. Because the farmer knows his limits. The man with satellites keeps trying to play God.”

Host: The tractor engine ticked softly as it cooled, a tired metallic heartbeat in the stillness. The sky stretched above them — blue, infinite, indifferent.

Jack: after a pause “You’re quoting a man from the 19th century. Gogol lived in a world of serfs and superstition. His ‘moral purity’ was poverty dressed up as poetry.”

Jeeny: with quiet fire “No, Jack. He was mourning disconnection — the loss of our intimacy with creation. That loss didn’t die with him. It grew. Now we hide behind concrete, we worship efficiency, we treat the earth like a servant instead of a mother.”

Jack: mocking gently “You sound like Rousseau — purity of nature, corruption of cities. But tell me, Jeeny, do you really believe morality grows from soil? Hitler loved the countryside too.”

Jeeny: sharp, but calm “You always reach for extremes to avoid understanding. I’m not talking about ideology — I’m talking about intimacy. Working the land isn’t about nationalism; it’s about humility. The earth doesn’t bend to you — it reminds you you’re part of something larger.”

Jack: half-smiles “And that humility feeds the world, does it?”

Jeeny: firmly “Yes. Every meal we eat begins in that humility. But we’ve forgotten gratitude in our hunger for control.”

Host: A bird flew low over the field — a small dark shape cutting through light. The earth beneath their feet seemed to hold its breath, as if listening.

Jack: softly, after a long pause “You know… when I was a kid, my grandfather kept a small garden behind his house. Tomatoes, potatoes, simple stuff. He’d wake before dawn to water them. I used to think he was mad — talking to his plants, touching the soil like it was a child.”

Jeeny: smiling softly “And now?”

Jack: shrugs “Now I get it. It wasn’t the vegetables. It was the ritual. The peace in doing something that didn’t need applause.”

Jeeny: gently “That’s what Gogol meant. That kind of work purifies you — not because it’s grand, but because it’s honest.”

Jack: sighing, half-admitting “Maybe. But you can’t feed a modern world on honesty. We need machines, automation, synthetic food. Morality won’t run a factory.”

Jeeny: quietly but fiercely “And yet without morality, every machine becomes a weapon. Every invention turns against its maker. The earth is not our slave, Jack — it’s our mirror. We keep trying to outgrow it, but it keeps reflecting who we really are.”

Host: The light shifted again — softer now, touched with the melancholy of late afternoon. Long shadows stretched across the rows, bending toward each other like reaching hands.

Jack: looking out over the fields “You ever wonder if Gogol was right — or just desperate for simplicity? Maybe he was just tired of how messy people are.”

Jeeny: smiles faintly “Maybe. But simplicity isn’t escape. It’s the foundation beneath the noise. You can build skyscrapers and networks, but if you forget the soil, the roots, the labor that keeps you fed — you’re just building castles in air.”

Jack: quietly “And when those castles fall?”

Jeeny: looks at him with calm certainty “The earth will still be here. Waiting. Patient. Eternal.”

Host: The camera would pull back now — the two of them small against the vast green expanse. The wind stirred the wheat again, a thousand tiny voices whispering the same wordless truth.

Jack: softly “Maybe that’s the purity he meant — not in the farmer, but in the earth itself. It doesn’t judge. It just receives.”

Jeeny: nodding “And gives back what you’ve earned — not more, not less. That’s morality at its purest form: consequence without ego.”

Jack: smiling faintly “You make farming sound like philosophy.”

Jeeny: grinning “It is. The first and the last one.”

Host: The sun began to set, spilling amber light across the field. The tractor, the furrows, the two figures — all bathed in the same quiet glow. A moment where everything — work, words, wounds — felt connected.

And in that stillness, Gogol’s voice seemed to drift like wind through wheat:

“Agriculture should be at the basis of everything.”

Not because the world belongs to the farmer,
but because the soul must remember where it came from —
and where it will return.

Host: The camera lingered as they walked back toward the distant farmhouse. The sky flamed with orange and violet, and behind them, the earth breathed — ancient, patient, alive.

And though neither spoke, their silence carried what words never could:

That the soil beneath their feet was not just ground —
it was memory,
it was morality,
it was home.