“Not a bit: in Russia there can be no labor question. In Russia the question is that of the relation of the working people to the land; though the question exists there too⁠—but there it’s a matter of repairing what’s been ruined, while with us.⁠ ⁠…”

Stepan Arkadyevitch listened attentively to Levin.

“Yes, yes!” he said, “it’s very possible you’re right. But I’m glad you’re in good spirits, and are hunting bears, and working, and interested. Shtcherbatsky told me another story⁠—he met you⁠—that you were in such a depressed state, talking of nothing but death.⁠ ⁠…”

“Well, what of it? I’ve not given up thinking of death,” said Levin. “It’s true that it’s high time I was dead; and that all this is nonsense. It’s the truth I’m telling you. I do value my idea and my work awfully; but in reality only consider this: all this world of ours is nothing but a speck of mildew, which has grown up on a tiny planet. And for us to suppose we can have something great⁠—ideas, work⁠—it’s all dust and ashes.”

“But all that’s as old as the hills, my boy!”