of the instant, in which neither art, nor trammels of execution, nor imperfections of detail had had a part.
In the novel there is not a needless character, nor a useless incident, nor a single page which does not contribute to the completing of the action and which has not a direct relation to the plot. Even the descriptions, in which our novelists are prodigal to the degree of piling them up indiscriminately, are in Suprema Ley, only different modes in which the subject is impressed by reality. In Gamboa’s work, Belen, the Theatre, the Alameda—especially the Alameda—perform the part of the chorus in Greek tragedy.
The characters are enchantingly real, to the degree that, after reading the book, we feel that we have encountered, seen, and spoken with the actors. Ortegal is a degenerate, whom we all know; Clothilde is a fallen woman with a mask of sanctity, a profligate, who entered the world for man’s undoing; Berón, Holas, even the Comendador and Don Francisco are the very breath of life, are full of enchanting and noble realism.