The allegories in “Jurgen” are most suggestive, in particular those which deal with Jurgen’s voyage to hell. Neither Voltaire nor Anatole France could have surpassed Cabell in conveying a moral lesson through a piquant anecdote. Jurgen has nothing of the Puritan in him. He is as heathenish as Don Juan. He never loses his good humor or his temper amidst his thousand and one adventures. His wit resembles Figaro’s. The conclusion of the book, where Jurgen interviews both Satan and Koshchei, is a pert satire on human frailty. Cabell’s poetic irony displayed itself best in “Jurgen.” As a representative man, Jurgen embodies in his person both Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. The romantic instincts are checked by his robust and plebeian common sense, which he cannot help venting amidst his most wonderful adventures. A Yankee afoot on Mount Parnassus, he may very well be introduced, such as he is, in the episode where he launches on his subterranean expedition astride the centaur Nessus: The cave stretched straight forward, and downward, and at the far end was a glow of light. Jurgen went on and on, and so came presently to a centaur: and this surprised him not a little, because Jurgen knew that centaurs were imaginary creatures. Certainly they were curious to look at: for here was the body of a fine bay horse, and rising from its shoulders, the sunburnt body of a young fellow who regarded Jurgen with grave and not unfriendly eyes. The Centaur was lying beside a fire of cedar and juniper wood: near him was a platter containing a liquid with which he was anointing his hoofs. This stuff, as the Centaur rubbed it in with his fingers, turned the appearance of his hoofs to gold. “Hail, friend,” says Jurgen, “if you be the work of God.” “Your protasis is not good Greek,” observed the Centaur, “because in Hellas we did not make such reservations. Besides, it is not so much my origin as my destination which concerns you.” “Well, friend, and whither are you going?” “To the garden between dawn and sunrise, Jurgen.” “Surely, now, but that is a fine name for a garden! and it is a place I would take joy in seeing.” “Up upon my back, Jurgen, and I will take you thither,” says the Centaur, and heaved to his feet. Then said the Centaur, when the pawnbroker hesitated: “Because, as you must understand, there is no other way. For this garden does not exist, and never did exist, in what men humorously called real life; so that of course only imaginary creatures such as I can enter it.” “That sounds very reasonable,” Jurgen estimated: “but as it happens, I am looking for my wife, whom I suspect to have been carried off by a devil, poor fellow!” And Jurgen began to explain to the Centaur what had befallen.