This was a lovely book. Yes, it extols virtues that are horrible (self-sacrificing your life, happiness, health and joy to pray for the soul of your abusive father, for instance) and the people in the village are so uniformly horrendous that you wonder about the preconceived notions of the author regarding poor, rural folk (she was a noblewoman).
BUT I started reading it that night, and just HAD to finish it, it was so easy to read and felt so, so... so old-timey... It's just one of those books, you know? You can't ask it to be something it isn't, you have to read it for what it is, and it is a book about redemption, and growth, and coming-of-age, and abuse. Nobody is perfect, which is awesome. Not just "not perfect", but quite seriously flawed. And very, very few characters, despite all appearances, are evil. I mean, sexist, beastly, misogynist men aren't "evil", they are the product of patriarchal, violent societies. So things are not simplified, despite the evidently and profoundly Christian (Catholic, I guess) rhetoric and framework: kids are mean and cruel but hey, they're just kids, right? The drunken, exploitative family isn't totally rotten to the core--their selfishness and cruelty isn't all there is to them. The "community" is a distilled--and therefore, concentrated--entity of horribleness, which is, sadly, a possibility and perhaps a probability in spaces as impoverished and deprived of possibilities, opportunities, and liberty as this.
It made me seek out more and more 19th century authors that remain unknown to me and who were, however, quite renowned in their time. Many, many female authors in particular, who were bestsellers in their time but have been forgotten...