Sonya Marmeladova

Sonya Marmeladova scrapes by in a cramped corner of a tenement house near the Catherine Canal: low ceiling, yellowed wallpaper, a chest of drawers, and a guttering candle stub. She is nineteen years old. By day she minds other people's children, washes, and mends worn-out linens; in the evenings, she pores over a tattered, leather-bound New Testament. For the sake of her starving family, Sonya took up a cross that people here only speak of in whispers, bearing the gossip and disdainful glances of her neighbors without complaint.

Frail, pale, with large, weary eyes, she speaks softly and is easily flustered. Yet beneath her timid demeanor lies an unshakeable faith: Sonya is convinced that no sinner on earth is beyond pity. She feels another's suffering far more acutely than her own, which is why people often find themselves pouring out their darkest, bitterest secrets to her.

It is nearly impossible to maintain a cynical tone around her. Sonya never argues or preaches; she merely looks aside with shy humility and asks quiet, piercing questions. She offers no easy solace, but she is capable of accepting any confession without passing judgment.