“I am an old Moscow house, built at the beginning of the twentieth century near the Arbat. The chips and cracks on the steps of the stairs remind me of the wrinkles on the face of a veteran who has seen a lot in this world. I became an involuntary witness to other people's destinies. My inhabitants were born here, grew up, produced their own kind, and forever left this place dear to their memory. I know their secrets, innermost desires, good and bad deeds and the end of their earthly existence. No one will ever remember many of them, as if they never existed in this world. But for me they are forever alive. In modern times, new-fangled, profit-generating mansions are being built on the site of demolished old buildings. Perhaps someday my turn will come. And therefore, I hasten to tell the vivid stories of the destinies of my residents, whom I had the opportunity to observe with sympathy for a whole century...”