I loved Jane Austen when I was a girl & "love" could be idealized as romantic because it was in the realm of fantasy; but later, it came to seem to me akin to observing beautifully attired, attractive skiers descending a mountain, admiring them without knowing what it is to actually ski. the air is cold, the ground is hard if you fall, your fellow skiers may glide past you indifferently, you may be hurt & all you can do is pick yourself up & try again.
romance is best appreciated from a little distance. do not, for instance, seek out "romance" by watching true crime documentaries.
no comparison, D.H. Lawrence. a rare writer who'd tried to depict, not sentimental "romantic" love, but intensely complicated, erotic love.
Austen never even tried to depict actual, physical love which would have been unthinkable for a woman writer of her time but Tolstoy certainly did, usually negatively.
Lawrence, for all his excesses, in prose & also poetry, tried to depict the love/hate of passion; that commingling of despair that Mellors felt, along with sexual desire, at the prospect of living again through such turmoil.
you have to have lived a while to appreciate Lawrence. Tolstoy is another matter: a man who'd impregnated his wife repeatedly & blamed her for his lust, not unlike Charles Dickens who complained of having at least five "unwanted sons."