One given to seek similarity between the old and the new would claim a likeness between Dr. Pascual, the learned man of the Rongón Macquart and the poor court writer, between Clothilde of Zola and the Clothilde of Gamboa, between the first night which the lovers spent united and the first night of Laurent and Therese Raquin, between the servant whose type Gamboa barely sketches and the Juliana Conseira de Eça of Quieros.
These similarities may or may not exist, but no charge can be made against Gamboa on account of them; he painted reality and the other novelists painted reality, and nothing resembles itself more closely than truth.
Gamboa does not possess what I will call the epic faculty, that is, the faculty of describing external nature, as Delgado for instance; as little does he have, as Campo, the privilege of retaining, in memory, phrases and gestures; nor does he possess a vein of humor, as these writers and as Cuellar; he is, before all and beyond all, an analyst, a dissector of souls who sees to the bottom of hearts, who seeks the lust that dishonors, the meanness that kills, the hatred that causes horror. For this reason, in my opinion, he will never be popular, while his luckier fellows will gain proselytes and friends as long as they write.
This is not saying that his book lacks attractive characters. Prieto is a well depicted jester, Chucho an admirably cut figure, Don Eustaquio, though somewhat melodramatic and somewhat out of place in that collection of beings of flesh and bone, is the providence which, dressed in jeans and working in clay, is brought in to give some outlet from the tangle; but, above all, the family of Ortegal is of the most delicate and tender which has been here described. Lamartine and Daudet might well have drawn the picture, if Lamartine and Daudet had dedicated themselves to painting Mexican types of the humbler class.