Chap­ter XVII begins with a tense domes­tic scene. Volod­ka, ignor­ing the earnest pleas of his fam­i­ly, choos­es the com­pa­ny of reck­less com­pan­ions over the warmth of his home. His depar­ture is punc­tu­at­ed by a vio­lent out­burst, as he strikes Luk­erya, then van­ish­es into the night. The silence that fol­lows is not just of absence, but one weight­ed with fear and res­ig­na­tion. Mean­while, a dif­fer­ent kind of dis­rup­tion arrives as Ele­na Ivanov­na and her daugh­ter come to vis­it from the estate. Their pres­ence, refined and removed from the harsh­ness of vil­lage life, sparks qui­et judg­ment and curios­i­ty among the peas­ants. Some see them as kind, oth­ers as naïve intrud­ers unaware of rur­al real­i­ties.

As Ele­na engages in con­ver­sa­tion with Rodi­on and Stepani­da, she express­es gen­uine con­cern about the village’s con­di­tions. Despite her resources, she admits to per­son­al hard­ships: a strained fam­i­ly life, health prob­lems, and dis­il­lu­sion­ment with her own posi­tion. Her empa­thy feels sin­cere, yet it col­lides with the vil­lagers’ hard­ened skep­ti­cism. Years of unmet promis­es have taught them cau­tion. They lis­ten, but their silence is not agreement—it is defense. Even Elena’s men­tion of donat­ing coal or propos­ing edu­ca­tion is met with cool detach­ment. In their minds, offers from the wealthy often come with strings or dis­ap­pear with time. The emo­tion­al divide between intent and recep­tion widens, mak­ing trust dif­fi­cult to restore.

Ele­na speaks not as a bene­fac­tor but as a woman long­ing to make a dif­fer­ence. She hopes her chil­dren will car­ry on efforts to uplift the vil­lagers, yet she also admits feel­ing help­less. Her desire for peace between class­es comes from the heart, but the vil­lagers have heard sim­i­lar words before. Mem­o­ries of bro­ken promis­es linger like shad­ows in their minds. Despite this, one can sense a flick­er of poten­tial. Rodi­on’s inter­est in her words sug­gests that not all doors are shut. Beneath the guard­ed respons­es lie unspo­ken hopes for true part­ner­ship, if ever it were to arrive with­out pre­tense or con­di­tion.

As she pre­pares to leave, Elena’s expres­sion reflects disappointment—more at the dis­tance between their worlds than at any par­tic­u­lar insult. Rodi­on, sens­ing this, steps for­ward, try­ing to soft­en the depar­ture. His ges­ture, though small, car­ries mean­ing. It implies the pos­si­bil­i­ty of under­stand­ing, or at least the will­ing­ness to lis­ten. Ele­na does not linger, but some­thing about her sad­ness res­onates with him. In his silence, there is reflec­tion, maybe even a shift in per­cep­tion. Such moments do not rewrite his­to­ry, but they sug­gest that mean­ing­ful change starts with empa­thy and pres­ence, not char­i­ty alone.

In this chap­ter, the inter­sec­tion of priv­i­lege and pover­ty is drawn with care­ful ten­sion. Elena’s wealth can­not shield her from emo­tion­al strug­gles, nor can it auto­mat­i­cal­ly grant her trust. The vil­lagers’ lives are harsh, shaped by weath­er, labor, and the weight of sur­vival. Their skep­ti­cism is not cruel—it is earned. The con­trast between Elena’s sin­cere out­reach and the vil­lagers’ cau­tious response illus­trates a time­less real­i­ty: change can­not be imposed, it must be invit­ed and built slow­ly. Dia­logue, not dona­tion, often becomes the most valu­able gift a per­son of means can offer. It’s not the offer of help that falls short—it’s the fail­ure to stay and under­stand once the words are spo­ken.

The char­ac­ter of Volod­ka, though absent for most of the chap­ter, casts a lin­ger­ing pres­ence. His actions reflect the chaos and pain woven into the fab­ric of rur­al life. His wife Luk­erya remains in silence, bear­ing not only his vio­lence but the weight of a com­mu­ni­ty that offers lit­tle refuge. In con­trast, Elena’s approach brings ten­der­ness, yet the space between them and the peas­ants is filled with past wounds and unequal foot­ing. That con­trast enrich­es the nar­ra­tive, remind­ing read­ers that both suf­fer­ing and good­will can exist on all rungs of soci­ety. The sto­ry does not offer a solu­tion, but it pos­es a crit­i­cal ques­tion: what does it take for real con­nec­tion to form between two worlds sep­a­rat­ed by his­to­ry, class, and pain?

By the end of this chap­ter, there is no resolution—only a sug­ges­tion of what might be pos­si­ble. Rodion’s sub­tle act of kind­ness hints at a frag­ile bridge between them. Trust remains elu­sive, but so long as some­one is will­ing to walk a step for­ward, hope lingers. The endur­ing les­son here is that words alone rarely heal. It is shared time, hon­est lis­ten­ing, and the slow work of build­ing rela­tion­ships that cre­ate last­ing bonds across class and strug­gle.