Chap­ter XVII opens in the vil­lage of Obrutchano­vo, where once the arrival of the engineer’s fam­i­ly brought a burst of curios­i­ty and a glim­mer of change. At the time, the con­struc­tion of the bridge and vil­la felt like a sign of trans­for­ma­tion, a nov­el­ty that hint­ed at some­thing grander. Yet over the years, that bridge became just anoth­er fea­ture, blend­ing into the dai­ly scenery. The vil­lagers, once eager to engage or observe, grew indif­fer­ent, their excite­ment dulled by famil­iar­i­ty and the rou­tine of their lives. When the Lytchkov fam­i­ly moved in, they car­ried a cer­tain weight of dis­tance, main­tain­ing a for­mal­i­ty that dis­cour­aged inter­ac­tion. This dis­tance, though polite, remind­ed the vil­lagers of their place in a hier­ar­chy that remained firm­ly in place. The pres­ence of strangers only rein­forced the per­ma­nence of that divide.

Lat­er, news of the vil­la chang­ing hands again stirs brief inter­est, but not the same antic­i­pa­tion it once did. The clerk who replaces the Lytchkovs seems unin­ter­est­ed in local cus­toms, engag­ing only when nec­es­sary. His lim­it­ed social grace and bureau­crat­ic tone make it clear he sees the vil­lage as temporary—an assign­ment, not a home. To the vil­lagers, this behav­ior feels famil­iar. Over time, they’ve learned that such vis­i­tors rarely stay or invest in build­ing gen­uine ties. Though the clerk is no noble­man, his indif­fer­ence and ele­vat­ed tone still draw a line. They tol­er­ate his pres­ence, just as they had with oth­ers before him, while life around the vil­la con­tin­ues with or with­out those who inhab­it it. The bridge, once a sym­bol of some­thing new, remains the only last­ing imprint from that dis­tant moment of excite­ment.

In the field near the sta­tion, peas­ants work under the same sun that once lit fire­works in cel­e­bra­tion. They speak of the past—of the engineer’s white hors­es and the music that spilled over the riv­er on hol­i­days. The mem­o­ry is so vivid that for a moment, their labor feels lighter, soft­ened by rec­ol­lec­tion. Those mem­o­ries are held not for their accu­ra­cy, but for how they made the vil­lage feel: seen, momen­tar­i­ly includ­ed in some­thing out­side of them­selves. They laugh qui­et­ly at how their chil­dren used to line up at the gate to watch the for­eign car­riages and ele­gant clothes. Time has fad­ed the sharp details, but the feel­ing remains—a kind of wist­ful admi­ra­tion for what once brushed their world, even briefly. Their sto­ries aren’t shared with envy, only with the com­fort of remem­ber­ing a sim­pler kind of awe.

Some vil­lagers, like Rodi­on, now have larg­er fam­i­lies, while oth­ers, like Kozov, have passed on, adding new lay­ers to the village’s gen­er­a­tional rhythm. Life con­tin­ues, ground­ed in cycles of sow­ing and har­vest, wed­dings and funer­als, arrivals and depar­tures. For all its seem­ing still­ness, the vil­lage does change, but it does so inwardly—measured by fam­i­ly lines, loss­es, and the unspo­ken wis­dom passed through sea­sons. The vil­la on the hill may gain new own­ers, and the bridge may host dif­fer­ent foot­steps, but the heart of the vil­lage beats on its own steady pulse. Their dai­ly strug­gles and qui­et tri­umphs are rarely noticed by out­siders. Yet in their own way, these vil­lagers endure, shap­ing a world that might appear small from the out­side but holds a rich, root­ed depth. Even as oth­ers come and go, their sto­ries stay behind, etched into the soil and spo­ken over fences.

The con­trast between the world of the vil­lagers and that of the villa’s occu­pants lingers like the mem­o­ry of old music. What once promised con­nec­tion revealed itself to be lit­tle more than a pass­ing influ­ence. Still, in moments of rest or reflec­tion, the vil­lagers allow them­selves the qui­et com­fort of nos­tal­gia. Not out of bit­ter­ness, but because those mem­o­ries offered some­thing rare: a glimpse beyond their usu­al view. In remem­ber­ing the engineer’s wife wav­ing from the ter­race, or the laugh­ter dur­ing fire­works, they don’t just recall a person—they recall a time when the world felt briefly wider. And even if that world moved on with­out them, they found a way to car­ry its light in their sto­ries.