“Enough, enough! Not another word. I found you, Sergei, don’t you see? You were there, I saw you, and I made you visible to others. Our relationship is the same as Mikhailov’s to the creature in the portrait, no more and no less. I’m no God, no creator. I’m just a man, and I don’t even know if I’m a good one. I want to be a good man. Family, friends, and love are far more valuable and more important than writing millions of words. When you take action, you know if you succeed, and if you fail, you can change your course. But if you write, then what? How do you know whether your audience understands you, whether you move them, whether they care? But it doesn’t matter! What matters is the common good. What matters is that we can’t allow the portrait of Anna Karenina to fall into the tsar’s hands. It’s unacceptable! But I’m not the one to stand and fight this battle, I would look like a megalomaniac, and I’m not! I’m not the one at stake! Listen to me! Try to understand! The fate of the canvas lies in your hands, both of yours. Sergei, do you understand what you’re giving away? Do you realize how the tsar will profit from it? How do you think that makes me feel? Just try and imagine. If paying taxes is tantamount to financing murders, this is much more serious than paying taxes. You’ll get money from the tsar, and in exchange you’ll give him your past, your own past, your roots, you’re giving away your own mother!” Tolstoy erupts, screaming and brandishing his fist in Sergei’s face. “You self-absorbed, self-serving fool!”

Tolstoy takes a few steps; the reception hall is larger in their dreams, huge like the tsarina’s, and his strides are so gigantic it’s hard to take him seriously.

Here, the dreams of husband and wife diverge. In Sergei’s dream, a fireplace is lit. In Claudia’s, it’s not. Tolstoy recovers his composure in both dreams: