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.