Chapters 12-17: Russian Aristocracy Problems

Is there ever a situation in a fictional work in which the man and woman clue into their mutual sexual tension without all sorts of horrible misunderstandings and angst? Of course not, because muddling through that is half the fun. Even seemingly drama-free couples, like James and Lily Potter or Zoe and Wash on Firefly, were revealed to have rocky starts.

I blame it on the mustache.

I only ask because Tolstoy makes it painfully obviously that Levin is a perfect match for Princess Kitty, who goes on to (first big spoiler alert of the blog) reject his proposal because she's distracted by Vronsky. Vronsky is the Wrong Guy First to Levin's Insecure Love Interest. He's a charming military man with certified mom approval and smoldering good looks. In case the reader is silly enough to actually consider him the better alternative to Constantin "Thank God I'm A Country Boy" Levin, it's immediately established that a) Vronsky is flirting with Kitty without any intention of marrying her and b) he doesn't see any problem with this. I know, neither do the drunk guys on Franklin Street who catcall to the sorority sisters on midnight Sweet Frog frozen yogurt runs, but things were different back then. There's even something kind of cool about a societal disdain for leading girls on, although it does throw a wrench into the casual dating.scene when people draw conclusions like this:

Vronsky openly flirted with Kitty at balls, danced with her, and came continually to the house; consequently there could be no doubt of his intentions.

Anyway, even though Vronsky is a committed bachelor whose ideas about how to confirm the "secret spiritual bond" he feels with Kitty do not involve the elaborately trimmed wedding gowns worn by Russian brides in that era, she is convinced to the contrary. This leads her to deliver Levin a rejection only slightly edged out by "You're joking, right?" on the Scale of Worst Possible Things You Can Say To Someone Who Just Asked To Spend His Life With You. Then he doesn't even get recovery time before he's roped into a hostile social setting with a countess who hates his guts and the big rival himself, Count Alexei Kirillovich Vronsky. Not to mention Kitty's mother, who thinks "Thank God, she's refused him" the moment she sees Levin's dejected face.

Cut to the next day at the Petersburg train station. I'd honestly forgotten all about Anna Karenina herself at this point, despite typing the title a billion times. But at last, she's poised to make an appearance as a guest to Stepan and Dolly's house, with Stepan clearly hoping that his sister can mend relations between him and his wife. Vronsky is also there to meet his mother. And in case Tolstoy didn't make it clear already that Vronsky is despicable, we get this gem:

He did not in his heart respect his mother, and, without acknowledging it to himself, he did not love her...

Dude doesn't love his own mother? Even Darth Vader and Adolf Hitler loved their mothers. Vronsky also isn't winning himself any favors from this reader when he tells Stepan that it's easier to stick to Claras (prostitutes) than carry on a genuine courtship because you risk your money instead of your dignity. If Stepan is the Jude Law of Anna Karenina, Vronsky is the Hugh Grant. He has the chance to get serious with the gorgeous Elizabeth Hurley Kitty, and he'd rather submerge himself in an unsavory and patriarchal system? For shame!

Sadly, no food items are mentioned in these chapters (I guess Stepan and Levin are still digesting those jellied oysters), so my Official Lit Dish is a bit of an extrapolation from the story. The way I see it, once Levin escaped back to his hotel room after his proposal went awry, he probably took refuge in comfort food like the baked Russian pastries called piroshki. They're carb-heavy, easy to eat, and often stuffed with sweets: what better way to soothe a broken heart? Other than taking a walking stick to Vronsky's pretty little souped-up two-wheel drive.

PETA says: Be sure to unharness any innocent horses before enacting your nineteenth-century revenge fantasies.