CLOSE--Expert fingers--female, unlovely, capable--shape a small lump of
dough which, with some shreds of cabbage, becomes a filled bun called a pirozhok . . .
which is now placed on a baking tray to join rows of pirozhoki ready for the oven.
CLOSE-- One hand opens the oven, and, mittened by an apron, removes
a tray of perfectly baked pirozhoki, which the other hand replaces with the
fresh tray . . . slightly burning itself on a knuckle.
POKROVSKOE, KONSTANTIN LEVIN'S ESTATE
300 MILES SOUTH OF MOSCOW:
INT. KITCHEN, POKROVSKOE, SAME TIME--NIGHT
Agafia sucks her knuckle and checks what's cooking on the stove-top. She is
He needs to come in if he's to wash himself.
A Kitchen Maid at the sink obediently dries her hands on her apron. A
dozing dog, Laska, pricks up her ears.
EXT. YARD, POKROVSKOE, SAME TIME--NIGHT
It's snowing. The Kitchen Maid, shawled, with a lantern, makes her way
across the yard towards the cowshed, a short distance, and pushes open the
frozen door. Laska is at her heels, but is made to stay outside.
INT. COWSHED, POKROVSKOE, SAME TIME--NIGHT
The herd stirs at the lantern light. The bull, Berkut, with a ring through
his nose, snorts as the girl goes by. At the back of the shed a cow is calving.
Levin is midwifing, sleeves pulled back, blood and slime up to his elbows.
He is 34. His steward, Vasili, holds up a lantern. Levin pulls carefully at
the emerging forefeet.
Good girl . . . good girl, Pava.
The calf's head emerges.
Agafia Mishaylovna says dinner's like to
The calf enters the world like a diver. Levin is feeling great pride and
. . . her father's colour.
Worth coming home for, Konstantin
I stayed too long in Moscow.
The cow nuzzles and licks her calf.
INT. DINING ROOM, POKROVSKOE--NIGHT
Cleaned up, in a smock shirt, Levin bites hungrily into a pirozhok, talking.
He has a book on a book-rest. Agafia ladles soup for him. Three generations
of family portraits look down on him.