THE EPIC OF GILGAMESH
Assyrian
2nd millennium BCE
The EPIC OF GILGAMESH began as a series of unconnected Sumerian stories around 2150 BCE before being combined into the oldest written epic by Akkadian scholars around 1900 BCE. The version we have today was edited by Sin-liqe-unninni around 1300-1000 BCE. The epic tells the story of a demigod, Gilgamesh, who ventures with his companions (originally 50, like the Argonauts, but later just one) to the ends of the earth to slay monsters. The famed eleventh tablet has an echo of Jason's quest to the solar land of Aea when Gilgamesh boards a boat to sail across the waters of death to the kingdom where the sun rests his rays. Indeed, scholars such as Martin Litchfield West have concluded that the epic, widely distributed across the ancient world in oral and written forms, was a decisive influence on the developing Argonaut myth.
Because the fragmentary text of the epic can be challenging to understand, this page houses a summary of the epic. The full text of the only accurate public domain translation is here. The text of the only surviving Greek mention of Gilgamesh is here. I have taken this highly detailed 1901 summary below from parts of two chapters of a book by Elwood Worcester (1864-1940), a clergyman and psychical researcher, incorporates many quotations from the epic and the fruit of German scholarship on the epic. In order to make the summary comprehensible to modern readers, I have altered the text to replace outdated and inaccurate early transliterations of characters' names with their modern counterparts. (For example, Izdubar has become Gilgamesh, Eabani has become Enkidu, etc.) Note, though, that in places modern scholarship has superceded this century-old summary. |
Summary of the Epic of Gilgamesh
From chapters 11 and 12 of The Book of Genesis in the Light of Modern Knowledge (1901)
Elwood Worcester
(Click HERE to read full text of the Epic of Gilgamesh instead)
I have several reasons for discussing this poem at some length. In the first place, it is one of the most considerable pieces of Babylonian literature and is of value for its own sake. Secondly, the later tablets of this epic contain the Babylonian account of the Flood, which is so strikingly like ours that even those persons who close their eyes to all other points of resemblance between Babylonian and Hebrew literature open them here. And thirdly, it throws some light on the second and third chapters of Genesis. Our first knowledge of this poem we owe, as usual, to George Smith, who discovered the larger portion of the tablets we now possess in the great library of Assurbanipal (668-626 B. C.), at Nineveh, in 1872. Since then other copies have been recovered from the same city, but no complete copy has been found. The poem in its original form consisted of twelve tablets and may have contained three thousand lines, of which only about one half have been recovered. The work of collecting and arranging these fragments has been performed by Professor Paul Haupt, of the Johns Hopkins University. Several excellent translations have been made. I shall depend largely on that of Alfred Jeremias. As the poem stands, it consists of fragments of twelve tablets, of which the last two are devoted largely to the Flood. Although, so far as I know, our tablets go back only to the copies presented by Assurbanipal (seventh century B. C.), yet there is no doubt that the story, and perhaps the poem, is immensely older. Berosus tells us that the Babylonian Noah before the flood was commanded by his deity to deposit all writings in his possession in the city of the sun at Sippara. The city of Uruk (Erech), where a great part of the scene is laid, is one of the most ancient cities of Babylonia, and representations of Gilgamesh or Izdubar are found on some very old cylinders, probably dating from before 2,000 B. C. These portraits are all much alike, and they seem to represent a very unusual type of humanity—one would almost say, a member of an earlier race than the Babylonian. The best proof of the enormous age of the epic is the way its stories have infiltrated into the mythologies of many nations. The poem, as we have said, is divided into twelve tablets or books, and as Izdubar is plainly conceived as a solar deity, these may very well stand for the twelve signs of the Zodiac through which the sun passes on his yearly path. It has been pointed out that several of the adventures of Izdubar correspond with the signs of the Zodiac. He kills the lion in the month of Leo. His courtship of Ishtar (goddess of love) occurs on the sixth tablet, which corresponds to the sixth sign, Virgo. The flood is described in the eleventh tablet, and the eleventh sign is Aquarius, etc.
The hero of the poem is known by the double name of Izdubar and Gilgamesh. The former is the English equivalent commonly assigned to his name in the inscriptions since George Smith; its meaning is still doubtful. The alternative, Gilgamesh, is, I believe, due to Pinches, who discovered on a lexicographical tablet the equation Izdubar-Gilgamesh. This would identify him with an old king, Gilgamos. His name is always preceded by the sign of divinity. It is difficult to say exactly how we should regard him, whether as a man or as a god. It is true, prayer is addressed to him as a mighty king and judge, but in the body of the poem he is scarcely more a mythical being than are some of the heroes of Homer, and there is no good reason to doubt that, as in all compositions of this sort, an ancient setting of fact is preserved under a great deal of fiction. The spiritual facts, however, alone are important in all these ancient sagas, and the spiritual facts by their very nature can never be concealed.
I need only add that this epic, like all ancient epics, is not the work of one mind. Probably more than one people has worked over it, and the traces of their handiwork are very apparent. The poem is one only in name. It consists of a number of independent narratives, often very loosely connected, and it would be an easy task to separate them. As there is reason to believe that the poem was translated into Babylonian from the Accadian language, it must be at least as old as 2000 B. C., and possibly older. Its stories are of such a popular character that they may very well have been handed down by word of mouth for a long time before they were reduced to writing.
The poem opens, according to Haupt, with these interesting words:
He who has beheld the history of Gilgamesh . . . knows all. He who sees the secret and hidden ... he brings knowledge which goes back before the Flood. He wanders weary on a distant path.
The first tablet, of which only a few fragments remain, evidently describes a siege of the walled city, Uruk, and times of great distress.
The she asses tread their foals under foot. The cows turn against their calves. The people lament like the cattle. The maidens mourn like doves. The gods of Uruk, the well protected, turn into flies and swarm around the streets. The demons of well-protected Uruk turn into snakes, and glide into holes (?). Three years did the enemy besiege Uruk. The gates were bolted. The earth works were thrown up. Ishtar did not raise her head before the enemy. . . . Then Bel opened his mouth, and spoke to Ishtar, the queen, to make known the word. (Tablet breaks off.)
The next is fuller. There is great commotion in Uruk on account of Gilgamesh, who is turning things upside down. At first it seems doubtful whether Gilgamesh has captured Uruk and is abusing the people, or whether the people are carried away with enthusiasm and are running after him.
On the whole, the former is more probable.
"Gilgamesh," the second tablet begins, "did not leave a son to his father, his daughter to a hero, his wife to a husband." Parents, therefore, complain to the goddess of the city.
He has no rival. . . . Your inhabitants are led [to battle]. Gilgamesh leaves not a maiden [to her mother], his daughter to a hero, his wife to a husband. . . . heard their cry. . . . To the goddess they called with loud voice, '' Thou, Aruru, hast created him; create now his equal. On the day of his heart may he . . . Let them fight with each other. Uruk [may witness it?]"
The only way they see of getting rid of Gilgamesh is through some mightier hero who by the aid of the goddess may conquer him. Arum's answer to this prayer is interesting.
When the goddess Aruru heard that, she made a man in her heart, a man of Anu [i. e., by the help of Anu]. Aruru washed her hands, picked up clay, and threw it on the ground.
This reminds us somewhat of Adam's creation out of dust, although the solemnity and the tenderness of Genesis are altogether lacking. In the expression, "threw it on the ground," we see the cold indifference to man so common in paganism. The man so created, however, is a very interesting person. He becomes the devoted friend of Gilgamesh and shares that hero's adventures. The story of Enkidu's life does not seem to belong to the original poem at all. Everything pertaining to him is strongly depicted. He is represented as man in his first savage condition. He is, in fact, the first man, made directly by a god out of dust and not begotten, and it is hard not to imagine that at first he was conceived as a kind of Babylonian Adam and that his association with Gilgamesh was added later. On the cylinders he is represented as half brute, half human.
The hero of the poem is known by the double name of Izdubar and Gilgamesh. The former is the English equivalent commonly assigned to his name in the inscriptions since George Smith; its meaning is still doubtful. The alternative, Gilgamesh, is, I believe, due to Pinches, who discovered on a lexicographical tablet the equation Izdubar-Gilgamesh. This would identify him with an old king, Gilgamos. His name is always preceded by the sign of divinity. It is difficult to say exactly how we should regard him, whether as a man or as a god. It is true, prayer is addressed to him as a mighty king and judge, but in the body of the poem he is scarcely more a mythical being than are some of the heroes of Homer, and there is no good reason to doubt that, as in all compositions of this sort, an ancient setting of fact is preserved under a great deal of fiction. The spiritual facts, however, alone are important in all these ancient sagas, and the spiritual facts by their very nature can never be concealed.
I need only add that this epic, like all ancient epics, is not the work of one mind. Probably more than one people has worked over it, and the traces of their handiwork are very apparent. The poem is one only in name. It consists of a number of independent narratives, often very loosely connected, and it would be an easy task to separate them. As there is reason to believe that the poem was translated into Babylonian from the Accadian language, it must be at least as old as 2000 B. C., and possibly older. Its stories are of such a popular character that they may very well have been handed down by word of mouth for a long time before they were reduced to writing.
The poem opens, according to Haupt, with these interesting words:
He who has beheld the history of Gilgamesh . . . knows all. He who sees the secret and hidden ... he brings knowledge which goes back before the Flood. He wanders weary on a distant path.
The first tablet, of which only a few fragments remain, evidently describes a siege of the walled city, Uruk, and times of great distress.
The she asses tread their foals under foot. The cows turn against their calves. The people lament like the cattle. The maidens mourn like doves. The gods of Uruk, the well protected, turn into flies and swarm around the streets. The demons of well-protected Uruk turn into snakes, and glide into holes (?). Three years did the enemy besiege Uruk. The gates were bolted. The earth works were thrown up. Ishtar did not raise her head before the enemy. . . . Then Bel opened his mouth, and spoke to Ishtar, the queen, to make known the word. (Tablet breaks off.)
The next is fuller. There is great commotion in Uruk on account of Gilgamesh, who is turning things upside down. At first it seems doubtful whether Gilgamesh has captured Uruk and is abusing the people, or whether the people are carried away with enthusiasm and are running after him.
On the whole, the former is more probable.
"Gilgamesh," the second tablet begins, "did not leave a son to his father, his daughter to a hero, his wife to a husband." Parents, therefore, complain to the goddess of the city.
He has no rival. . . . Your inhabitants are led [to battle]. Gilgamesh leaves not a maiden [to her mother], his daughter to a hero, his wife to a husband. . . . heard their cry. . . . To the goddess they called with loud voice, '' Thou, Aruru, hast created him; create now his equal. On the day of his heart may he . . . Let them fight with each other. Uruk [may witness it?]"
The only way they see of getting rid of Gilgamesh is through some mightier hero who by the aid of the goddess may conquer him. Arum's answer to this prayer is interesting.
When the goddess Aruru heard that, she made a man in her heart, a man of Anu [i. e., by the help of Anu]. Aruru washed her hands, picked up clay, and threw it on the ground.
This reminds us somewhat of Adam's creation out of dust, although the solemnity and the tenderness of Genesis are altogether lacking. In the expression, "threw it on the ground," we see the cold indifference to man so common in paganism. The man so created, however, is a very interesting person. He becomes the devoted friend of Gilgamesh and shares that hero's adventures. The story of Enkidu's life does not seem to belong to the original poem at all. Everything pertaining to him is strongly depicted. He is represented as man in his first savage condition. He is, in fact, the first man, made directly by a god out of dust and not begotten, and it is hard not to imagine that at first he was conceived as a kind of Babylonian Adam and that his association with Gilgamesh was added later. On the cylinders he is represented as half brute, half human.
She made Enkidu, a hero, a noble offspring, a man of the fields; covered with hair was his body, with long tresses like a woman. The [waving?] hair of his head stood up like that of the wheat [god?]. He was clothed in a garment like the field. He ate grass with the gazelles, he drank water with the cattle of the field, he amused himself with the animals of the water.
In this lonely life among the animals, with whom he is on very intimate terms, Enkidu again reminds us of Adam. The resemblance between them becomes more striking as we go on. What follows is introduced so abruptly that there seems to be a break. The meaning, however, is plain. Enkidu was created to overcome Gilgamesh, who is destroying Uruk. But of this Enkidu knows nothing. He is leading a happy life, far away in the wilderness. It is therefore necessary that some means be discovered to bring Enkidu to Uruk. Accordingly, Sadu, the hunter, is despatched to capture him. Enkidu's surprise and animal wrath in the presence of the first man he has ever seen are wonderfully described.
Sadu, a hunter, the man-catcher, met him at the entrance to the watering place. He, Enkidu. saw him, the hunter. His countenance grew dark, he went with his cattle back into the shelter, he was troubled, lamented, cried aloud, [sad?] was his heart, his face was disturbed . . . sorrow [stole into?] his heart. ... In the distance his face was burning with anger.
Here something is lost. Sadu, the hunter, becomes afraid. He does not dare attempt Enkidu's capture, and goes back to tell of his failure to the god who had sent him.
The hunter opened his mouth and said [to Ea? or Shamash? his father]: "My father [?], one hero going is not enough. In heaven is . . . his strength is like a man of Anu. . . . He strides along over the mountain. . . . With the cattle of the field he continually eats grass. His feet are always at the entrance of the watering places. ... I fear him, I will not go near him. He has filled up the hole I dug [to entrap him], torn away the cords [I laid out]; he let the cattle and beasts of the field escape out of my hands, and would not allow me to hunt." [The god] said to the hunter, [set out and go] to Uruk, the city of Gilgamesh.
Fragments here indicate that in Uruk Sadu is to find a priestess of Ishtar who will aid him in capturing Enkidu. The narrative goes on:
According to the advice of his father, the hunter sets out and goes to Uruk. Before the face of Gilgamesh [the hunter appears and speaks].
In the same language Sadu tells Gilgamesh of his unsuccessful attempt. There is evidently some confusion here, for Gilgamesh is represented as advising Sadu how to capture Enkidu, who was made to destroy him.
Gilgamesh spoke to him, "Go, my hunter, take the priestess Shamhat. When the cattle come to drink she shall show herself to him. He shall see her and will approach. His cattle that have flocked round him will run away." The hunter went, he took with him the priestess Shamhat, he took the straight road. On the third day they reached the appointed field. The hunter and the priestess sat down as it pleased them. One day, two days, they sat at the entrance to the watering place. With the cattle he took his drink, he played with the animals of the water. Enkidu came, he whose house was in the mountains. He ate grass with the gazelles, he drank water with the cattle, he amused himself with the creatures of the water. Shamhat saw the cnimal-man. ... "That is he, Shamhat" [said the hunter].
Shamhat charms Enkidu and draws him away from his beloved animals. It is hard again not to see in this a profound reminiscence of Genesis. As I said before, the story of Enkidu probably has been tampered with to make it fit into the action of the poem. The motives that led to this first meeting of Enkidu and Shamhat may have been entirely altered. In its present form the Babylonian epic contains much that is to us gross and revolting, and of the chaste reticence and purity of our Paradise narrative there is hardly a trace. We must remember, however, that Gilgamesh is one of the oldest pieces of human literature—at least a thousand years older than the poems of Homer, and we must regard its genuinely ancient naivete with some indulgence. And yet, I repeat, certain motives of this story forcibly remind us of our book. It was in this way that Eve found Adam, living contentedly among his cattle, among which Jahveh had looked for a helpmeet for him, and by her influence Adam was brought to the sense of the dignity of manhood and was withdrawn from the society of animals.
This touch, so profound and so suggestive, also follows in the Babylonian story.
For six days Enkidu remained [near]. Afterward he turned his face toward his cattle. They saw him, Enkidu; the gazelles hid, the beasts of the field turned away from him.
The meaning is plain. Enkidu has become a man by his association with woman; he is separated forever from the animal kingdom. The beasts recognize this and are afraid of him.
Then Enkidu was frightened and fell in a swoon. His knees trembled, as his cattle ran away from him. . . . Then he heard ... his senses came back. He returned and sat down at the feet of the priestess and looked up into her face, and while the priestess speaks his ears hear. . . . She speaks to him, "Enkidu, you are noble, you are like a god. Why do you stay with the beasts of the field? Come, I will bring you to walled Uruk, to the bright house, the dwelling of Anu and Ishtar, to the place of Gilgamesh who is perfect in strength, who like a mountain bull excels the heroes in valor." While she speaks to him he listens to her words. He who is wise in heart seeks a friend. "Come, Shamhat, take me to the bright and sacred dwelling of Anu and Ishtar, to the place of Gilgamesh, who is perfect in strength, and who like a mountain bull rules over the heroes. I will fight with him, mightily will I [win his friendship]. I will send to Uruk a lion [a wildcat] to prove Gilgamesh's strength."
It will be noticed here, as in Genesis, that after the woman has obtained her supremacy over the man, her first act is to take him out of his happy garden and plunge him into toil and struggle.
In giving an account of the Babylonian epic which narrated the adventures of Izdubar, or Gilgamesh, I have called attention to the reasons for studying this poem with some care. First, because it is one of the oldest and most remarkable compositions in existence, full of interest and worth studying for its own sake; secondly, because the latter part of the poem contains the Babylonian story of the Flood, and thirdly, because scattered through the whole poem we find suggestions of the early chapters of Genesis.
We have seen how Enkidu, whom we may almost call the Babylonian Adam, was created by the goddess Aruru out of clay, and how he lived a happy life among the animals, "eating grass with the gazelles," until he came to the realization of the dignity of manhood through his friendship with a woman, the priestess Shamhat. The first thing Shamhat does is to carry Enkidu away from his animal Paradise to the walled city of Uruk, where lives the great hero Gilgamesh, whom Enkidu was created to fight with. However, they do not fight. Enkidu is warned in a dream by his mother, Aruru, that Gilgamesh's powers are greater than his own, and instead of fighting, the two heroes form a life-long friendship and support each other in the series of adventures which follow. Their first adventure is with the giant Humbaba, who appears to have been an ancient king of Elam. Humbaba is the possessor of a wonderful sacred grove, from which a pestilence goes out to strike every profane intruder dead. Here Gilgamesh has a dream, which I will give as a specimen of the dreams that are so common in this poem.
The dream that I dreamed was quite . . . The heaven resounded, the earth roared and darkness came down, the lightning shone, fire came forth sated [with destruction], full of death. The brightness was extinguished, it was out of the fire . . . fell down, became smoke.
They enter the sacred grove where Humbaba was accustomed to walk with lofty strides, and evidently slay him. The episode which follows is so peculiar and such wonderfully good epic poetry that I give it entire. After the battle, Gilgamesh washed himself, removed all traces of the combat, dressed himself in a shining white garment and put on his diadem. So noble was the form and appearance of the hero that it excited the admiration of the great goddess Ishtar, the Babylonian Venus.
"Come, Gilgamesh," she says to him, "be my spouse. Give me your love for a gift. You shall be my husband, I will be your wife. I will place you on a chariot of precious stones and gold, whose wheels are of gold, its horns are of sapphire. You shall drive great kudanu [lions]. Under the fragrance of cedars you shall come into our house. When you enter our house, then shall . . . kiss your feet. Kings, lords, and princes shall bow [?] before you. [All the produce of] mountain and land they shall bring you as a tribute."
But this invitation, which Heine unconsciously so perfectly reproduced in his Princess Use, Gilgamesh declines. He recalls the fate of the former aspirants to Ishtar's favor, and lays aside the dangerous distinction.
"Very well," he says, "I will openly relate your inconstancies. Dumuzi [Tammuz], the husband of your youth, you compelled to weep year after year. You loved the beautiful Allulu bird, you crushed him, you broke his wings. Now he stands in the wood and cries, 'Oh! my wings.' You also loved a lion of wonderful strength, seven and seven times [again and again] you outwitted him. You also loved a horse mighty in battle, with whip and spur did you afflict him; although he had galloped seven leagues, when he was tired and wanted to drink you urged him on, and compelled his mother, the goddess Sibili, to weep. You loved a chief shepherd, who constantly burned incense to you and daily slaughtered kids. You beat him and turned him into a tiger, so that his own shepherds would hunt him and his dogs bite him fiercely. You loved a giant [?] your father's gardener, who continually brought you presents, and every day prettily adorned your table [made bright your dishes]. You cast your eye on him and made him mad. 'O, my Giant,' you said, ' come now, you will enjoy your fruit. You shall stretch out your hand and dispel our hesitation.' The giant said to you, 'What scheme are you plotting against me, my little mother? Prepare no meal, for I will not partake of it. What I should partake of is bad and accursed food, covered with dangerous fire. ..." As soon as you heard that, you attacked him and turned him into a dwarf, and laid him down on a couch, so that he could not stand up. Now you love me also, but like those [you will destroy me]."
All these allusions were popular stories, several of which passed into Greek and Roman mythology. The shepherd turned into a tiger reminds us of Actaeon, changed to a stag by Diana and torn by his dogs. Tammuz was Adonis. The charge that Ishtar caused him to weep, however, does not seem well founded, as Tammuz, the young summer god, was killed by the sharp tooth of approaching winter. It was Ishtar who wept for him, and who to free the souls of the departed descended into hell. The ironical and bantering language that Gilgamesh addresses to one of the chief deities of his people surprises us in so ancient a poem. It reminds us of the religious attitude of the Romans in late and sceptical ages. When people address their gods in this manner it can hardly be said that they believe in them, but it is not a little singular to see paganism disintegrating and faith passing into ridicule at so early a period.
The wrath of Ishtar is most naively related, and the embarrassment of her father, who was unable to resist her tears, reminds us of similar predicaments of Zeus. She flew at once to Ami and said to him, "My father, Gilgamesh has insulted me. Gilgamesh has related my faults, my faults and evil deeds." Anu, however, who takes for granted that Gilgamesh's criticisms are merited, tries to pacify her. "Do not be disturbed," he says, "even though Gilgamesh has related your faults and evil deeds." Ishtar refuses to be mollified. "My father," she prays, "make me a heavenly bull." Anu hesitates. "What is this you ask?" Ishtar prevails, and the heavenly bull is made and is sent down to destroy the insolent hero. Gilgamesh and Enkidu, undaunted, attack it together and kill it. Ishtar's wrath now knows no bounds. She mounts the wall of Uruk and utters a loud cry.
"Curse on Gilgamesh, who injured me and who slew the heavenly bull!" Enkidu heard those words of Ishtar's, tore off the ibbatu [shoulder?] of the heavenly bull, and threw it in her face. "Oh! you, I will conquer you as you did [think to do] him."
Their triumph was short-lived. Enkidu was soon made to pay the penalty of his impiety. Everything points to the fact that he did not die a natural death. In the twelfth tablet we are told that the earth swallowed him up, and Gilgamesh himself was soon smitten with a deadly leprosy. From this point the character of the poem changes. Its tone becomes more tragical and the superhuman element begins to reveal itself more plainly. The whole setting becomes more sombre and weird. Gilgamesh has lost his friend Enkidu, and he is plagued by a sore disease. He begins to turn his face toward a certain magical country, the Island of the Blessed, which lies far out to sea beyond the waters of Death. On this island grows the Tree of Life, or as it is called in the poem, "the plant that makes the old man young again." Only two mortals have ever reached those blessed shores, the way to which is beset with terrible dangers. They are Utnapishtimand his wife. Utnapishtimis one of the most curious figures in the whole narrative. He is the Babylonian Noah, who, with his family alone, escaped from the deluge that destroyed the world.
In one respect, however, Utnapishtimis superior to Noah. After the flood had subsided, he did not share the fate of mortal men. He was translated to the Island of the Blessed and became its guardian. On account of his escape from death, he has also been compared with Enoch, " who was not, for God took him." * But the fact that Utnapishtim's wife also escaped death and continued to live with him in the Island of the Blessed somewhat weakens the comparison.
Now let us return to our story.
Gilgamesh wept bitterly over his friend Enkidu, lying on the ground. "I will not die like Enkidu. Sorrow has entered my soul. I have learned the fear of death. ... I will go with rapid step to the powerful Utnapishtim, son of Kidin-Marduk."
Utnapishtim's dwelling place is vaguely described as "in the distance, at the confluence of the streams." So Gilgamesh sets out. His first serious adventure is with the Scorpion-Men, who guard the pass of Mount Masu. The description of these men is very curious.
Then he came to the mountain pass, Masu, whose entrance was continually watched by beings whose backs reached to the confines of heaven, and their breasts below Arallu [the lower world]. The Scorpion-Men guard the gate. They strike terrible alarm, their look is death. Awful is their brightness, dashing down mountains. They guard the sun when he rises and when he sets.
In this lonely life among the animals, with whom he is on very intimate terms, Enkidu again reminds us of Adam. The resemblance between them becomes more striking as we go on. What follows is introduced so abruptly that there seems to be a break. The meaning, however, is plain. Enkidu was created to overcome Gilgamesh, who is destroying Uruk. But of this Enkidu knows nothing. He is leading a happy life, far away in the wilderness. It is therefore necessary that some means be discovered to bring Enkidu to Uruk. Accordingly, Sadu, the hunter, is despatched to capture him. Enkidu's surprise and animal wrath in the presence of the first man he has ever seen are wonderfully described.
Sadu, a hunter, the man-catcher, met him at the entrance to the watering place. He, Enkidu. saw him, the hunter. His countenance grew dark, he went with his cattle back into the shelter, he was troubled, lamented, cried aloud, [sad?] was his heart, his face was disturbed . . . sorrow [stole into?] his heart. ... In the distance his face was burning with anger.
Here something is lost. Sadu, the hunter, becomes afraid. He does not dare attempt Enkidu's capture, and goes back to tell of his failure to the god who had sent him.
The hunter opened his mouth and said [to Ea? or Shamash? his father]: "My father [?], one hero going is not enough. In heaven is . . . his strength is like a man of Anu. . . . He strides along over the mountain. . . . With the cattle of the field he continually eats grass. His feet are always at the entrance of the watering places. ... I fear him, I will not go near him. He has filled up the hole I dug [to entrap him], torn away the cords [I laid out]; he let the cattle and beasts of the field escape out of my hands, and would not allow me to hunt." [The god] said to the hunter, [set out and go] to Uruk, the city of Gilgamesh.
Fragments here indicate that in Uruk Sadu is to find a priestess of Ishtar who will aid him in capturing Enkidu. The narrative goes on:
According to the advice of his father, the hunter sets out and goes to Uruk. Before the face of Gilgamesh [the hunter appears and speaks].
In the same language Sadu tells Gilgamesh of his unsuccessful attempt. There is evidently some confusion here, for Gilgamesh is represented as advising Sadu how to capture Enkidu, who was made to destroy him.
Gilgamesh spoke to him, "Go, my hunter, take the priestess Shamhat. When the cattle come to drink she shall show herself to him. He shall see her and will approach. His cattle that have flocked round him will run away." The hunter went, he took with him the priestess Shamhat, he took the straight road. On the third day they reached the appointed field. The hunter and the priestess sat down as it pleased them. One day, two days, they sat at the entrance to the watering place. With the cattle he took his drink, he played with the animals of the water. Enkidu came, he whose house was in the mountains. He ate grass with the gazelles, he drank water with the cattle, he amused himself with the creatures of the water. Shamhat saw the cnimal-man. ... "That is he, Shamhat" [said the hunter].
Shamhat charms Enkidu and draws him away from his beloved animals. It is hard again not to see in this a profound reminiscence of Genesis. As I said before, the story of Enkidu probably has been tampered with to make it fit into the action of the poem. The motives that led to this first meeting of Enkidu and Shamhat may have been entirely altered. In its present form the Babylonian epic contains much that is to us gross and revolting, and of the chaste reticence and purity of our Paradise narrative there is hardly a trace. We must remember, however, that Gilgamesh is one of the oldest pieces of human literature—at least a thousand years older than the poems of Homer, and we must regard its genuinely ancient naivete with some indulgence. And yet, I repeat, certain motives of this story forcibly remind us of our book. It was in this way that Eve found Adam, living contentedly among his cattle, among which Jahveh had looked for a helpmeet for him, and by her influence Adam was brought to the sense of the dignity of manhood and was withdrawn from the society of animals.
This touch, so profound and so suggestive, also follows in the Babylonian story.
For six days Enkidu remained [near]. Afterward he turned his face toward his cattle. They saw him, Enkidu; the gazelles hid, the beasts of the field turned away from him.
The meaning is plain. Enkidu has become a man by his association with woman; he is separated forever from the animal kingdom. The beasts recognize this and are afraid of him.
Then Enkidu was frightened and fell in a swoon. His knees trembled, as his cattle ran away from him. . . . Then he heard ... his senses came back. He returned and sat down at the feet of the priestess and looked up into her face, and while the priestess speaks his ears hear. . . . She speaks to him, "Enkidu, you are noble, you are like a god. Why do you stay with the beasts of the field? Come, I will bring you to walled Uruk, to the bright house, the dwelling of Anu and Ishtar, to the place of Gilgamesh who is perfect in strength, who like a mountain bull excels the heroes in valor." While she speaks to him he listens to her words. He who is wise in heart seeks a friend. "Come, Shamhat, take me to the bright and sacred dwelling of Anu and Ishtar, to the place of Gilgamesh, who is perfect in strength, and who like a mountain bull rules over the heroes. I will fight with him, mightily will I [win his friendship]. I will send to Uruk a lion [a wildcat] to prove Gilgamesh's strength."
It will be noticed here, as in Genesis, that after the woman has obtained her supremacy over the man, her first act is to take him out of his happy garden and plunge him into toil and struggle.
In giving an account of the Babylonian epic which narrated the adventures of Izdubar, or Gilgamesh, I have called attention to the reasons for studying this poem with some care. First, because it is one of the oldest and most remarkable compositions in existence, full of interest and worth studying for its own sake; secondly, because the latter part of the poem contains the Babylonian story of the Flood, and thirdly, because scattered through the whole poem we find suggestions of the early chapters of Genesis.
We have seen how Enkidu, whom we may almost call the Babylonian Adam, was created by the goddess Aruru out of clay, and how he lived a happy life among the animals, "eating grass with the gazelles," until he came to the realization of the dignity of manhood through his friendship with a woman, the priestess Shamhat. The first thing Shamhat does is to carry Enkidu away from his animal Paradise to the walled city of Uruk, where lives the great hero Gilgamesh, whom Enkidu was created to fight with. However, they do not fight. Enkidu is warned in a dream by his mother, Aruru, that Gilgamesh's powers are greater than his own, and instead of fighting, the two heroes form a life-long friendship and support each other in the series of adventures which follow. Their first adventure is with the giant Humbaba, who appears to have been an ancient king of Elam. Humbaba is the possessor of a wonderful sacred grove, from which a pestilence goes out to strike every profane intruder dead. Here Gilgamesh has a dream, which I will give as a specimen of the dreams that are so common in this poem.
The dream that I dreamed was quite . . . The heaven resounded, the earth roared and darkness came down, the lightning shone, fire came forth sated [with destruction], full of death. The brightness was extinguished, it was out of the fire . . . fell down, became smoke.
They enter the sacred grove where Humbaba was accustomed to walk with lofty strides, and evidently slay him. The episode which follows is so peculiar and such wonderfully good epic poetry that I give it entire. After the battle, Gilgamesh washed himself, removed all traces of the combat, dressed himself in a shining white garment and put on his diadem. So noble was the form and appearance of the hero that it excited the admiration of the great goddess Ishtar, the Babylonian Venus.
"Come, Gilgamesh," she says to him, "be my spouse. Give me your love for a gift. You shall be my husband, I will be your wife. I will place you on a chariot of precious stones and gold, whose wheels are of gold, its horns are of sapphire. You shall drive great kudanu [lions]. Under the fragrance of cedars you shall come into our house. When you enter our house, then shall . . . kiss your feet. Kings, lords, and princes shall bow [?] before you. [All the produce of] mountain and land they shall bring you as a tribute."
But this invitation, which Heine unconsciously so perfectly reproduced in his Princess Use, Gilgamesh declines. He recalls the fate of the former aspirants to Ishtar's favor, and lays aside the dangerous distinction.
"Very well," he says, "I will openly relate your inconstancies. Dumuzi [Tammuz], the husband of your youth, you compelled to weep year after year. You loved the beautiful Allulu bird, you crushed him, you broke his wings. Now he stands in the wood and cries, 'Oh! my wings.' You also loved a lion of wonderful strength, seven and seven times [again and again] you outwitted him. You also loved a horse mighty in battle, with whip and spur did you afflict him; although he had galloped seven leagues, when he was tired and wanted to drink you urged him on, and compelled his mother, the goddess Sibili, to weep. You loved a chief shepherd, who constantly burned incense to you and daily slaughtered kids. You beat him and turned him into a tiger, so that his own shepherds would hunt him and his dogs bite him fiercely. You loved a giant [?] your father's gardener, who continually brought you presents, and every day prettily adorned your table [made bright your dishes]. You cast your eye on him and made him mad. 'O, my Giant,' you said, ' come now, you will enjoy your fruit. You shall stretch out your hand and dispel our hesitation.' The giant said to you, 'What scheme are you plotting against me, my little mother? Prepare no meal, for I will not partake of it. What I should partake of is bad and accursed food, covered with dangerous fire. ..." As soon as you heard that, you attacked him and turned him into a dwarf, and laid him down on a couch, so that he could not stand up. Now you love me also, but like those [you will destroy me]."
All these allusions were popular stories, several of which passed into Greek and Roman mythology. The shepherd turned into a tiger reminds us of Actaeon, changed to a stag by Diana and torn by his dogs. Tammuz was Adonis. The charge that Ishtar caused him to weep, however, does not seem well founded, as Tammuz, the young summer god, was killed by the sharp tooth of approaching winter. It was Ishtar who wept for him, and who to free the souls of the departed descended into hell. The ironical and bantering language that Gilgamesh addresses to one of the chief deities of his people surprises us in so ancient a poem. It reminds us of the religious attitude of the Romans in late and sceptical ages. When people address their gods in this manner it can hardly be said that they believe in them, but it is not a little singular to see paganism disintegrating and faith passing into ridicule at so early a period.
The wrath of Ishtar is most naively related, and the embarrassment of her father, who was unable to resist her tears, reminds us of similar predicaments of Zeus. She flew at once to Ami and said to him, "My father, Gilgamesh has insulted me. Gilgamesh has related my faults, my faults and evil deeds." Anu, however, who takes for granted that Gilgamesh's criticisms are merited, tries to pacify her. "Do not be disturbed," he says, "even though Gilgamesh has related your faults and evil deeds." Ishtar refuses to be mollified. "My father," she prays, "make me a heavenly bull." Anu hesitates. "What is this you ask?" Ishtar prevails, and the heavenly bull is made and is sent down to destroy the insolent hero. Gilgamesh and Enkidu, undaunted, attack it together and kill it. Ishtar's wrath now knows no bounds. She mounts the wall of Uruk and utters a loud cry.
"Curse on Gilgamesh, who injured me and who slew the heavenly bull!" Enkidu heard those words of Ishtar's, tore off the ibbatu [shoulder?] of the heavenly bull, and threw it in her face. "Oh! you, I will conquer you as you did [think to do] him."
Their triumph was short-lived. Enkidu was soon made to pay the penalty of his impiety. Everything points to the fact that he did not die a natural death. In the twelfth tablet we are told that the earth swallowed him up, and Gilgamesh himself was soon smitten with a deadly leprosy. From this point the character of the poem changes. Its tone becomes more tragical and the superhuman element begins to reveal itself more plainly. The whole setting becomes more sombre and weird. Gilgamesh has lost his friend Enkidu, and he is plagued by a sore disease. He begins to turn his face toward a certain magical country, the Island of the Blessed, which lies far out to sea beyond the waters of Death. On this island grows the Tree of Life, or as it is called in the poem, "the plant that makes the old man young again." Only two mortals have ever reached those blessed shores, the way to which is beset with terrible dangers. They are Utnapishtimand his wife. Utnapishtimis one of the most curious figures in the whole narrative. He is the Babylonian Noah, who, with his family alone, escaped from the deluge that destroyed the world.
In one respect, however, Utnapishtimis superior to Noah. After the flood had subsided, he did not share the fate of mortal men. He was translated to the Island of the Blessed and became its guardian. On account of his escape from death, he has also been compared with Enoch, " who was not, for God took him." * But the fact that Utnapishtim's wife also escaped death and continued to live with him in the Island of the Blessed somewhat weakens the comparison.
Now let us return to our story.
Gilgamesh wept bitterly over his friend Enkidu, lying on the ground. "I will not die like Enkidu. Sorrow has entered my soul. I have learned the fear of death. ... I will go with rapid step to the powerful Utnapishtim, son of Kidin-Marduk."
Utnapishtim's dwelling place is vaguely described as "in the distance, at the confluence of the streams." So Gilgamesh sets out. His first serious adventure is with the Scorpion-Men, who guard the pass of Mount Masu. The description of these men is very curious.
Then he came to the mountain pass, Masu, whose entrance was continually watched by beings whose backs reached to the confines of heaven, and their breasts below Arallu [the lower world]. The Scorpion-Men guard the gate. They strike terrible alarm, their look is death. Awful is their brightness, dashing down mountains. They guard the sun when he rises and when he sets.
This is all interesting as throwing light on the Babylonian cosmology. The Babylonians represented the confines of the world as a great dam which supported the firmament of heaven. At each end of the world stands a great mountain—on one side the bright sunrise mountain, on the other the dark sunset mountain. As to the position of these two mythical mountains, naturally nothing definite can be said. They stand, however, on the verge between cosmos and chaos. This is well brought out by the Scorpion-Men who guard the rising and the setting of the sun. They stand on the mountain pass, the boundary line that separates the world from chaos. The upper portion of their bodies, which is human, reaches to heaven; the lower, serpentine part belongs to the nether world. These Scorpion-Men, of course, are the constellation Scorpio, through which the sun passes in the autumnal equinox. In the Creation tablet they were described as among the monsters of Tiamat, but, after her downall, they apparently became guardians of the sun. In regard to the general geography of this portion of the poem, the Island of the Blessed—to which Gilgamesh is making his way—lies far from land, beyond the waters of bitterness and the waters of Death, at the confluence of the streams. Two of these streams, in any event, are the Tigris and the Euphrates. We should, therefore, regard the Island of the Blessed as a mythical island far out in the Persian Gulf. There seems to be no reason to regard it as in the domain of the lower world, for the very thing that distinguished Utnapishtim is that he did not die at all, and he and his wife are the sole occupants of this island. The path taken by Gilgamesh is, of course, very obscure, for he was going by a mythical way to an island that never existed. Jeremias informs us, however, that the tableland Masu was identified in the annals of Assurbanipal and Sargon with the Syro-Arabian desert, south and southeast of the Tigris and Euphrates, and was described as "the place of thirst and desolation, to which no bird of heaven comes, where no wild asses, no gazelles graze."
This terrible land, so little known, was very naturally selected as on the way leading to the waters of Death.
When Gilgamesh saw them [the Scorpion-Men], his countenance was full of terror and alarm. Their frightful appearance robbed him of his senses. The Scorpion-Man spoke to his wife, " He who conies to, us is of the bodily likeness of a god."
Gilgamesh tells him of his purpose, and the Scorpion-Man describes the fearful dangers of the march through Mount Masu. Miles of thick darkness extend in every direction. At Gilgamesh's entreaty he opens the gate, and the mysterious journey now begins.
"He wanders one mile, thick is the darkness; it does not grow light. He wanders two miles, thick is the darkness," and so on through the twelve miles in the heart of the mountain. At last he emerges on the shore of the sea, and sees a magnificent tree loaded with jewels and precious stones, which reminds us of Ezekiel's strange account of the precious stones in the garden of Eden. Here sits a divine maiden, Siduri (a very obscure personage), "on the throne of the sea." [Note: In modern translations, she is an alewife and goddess of fermentation.] Seeing Gilgamesh approach, Siduri withdraws to her palace and bolts the door. Gilgamesh says to her, "Siduri, what do you see?
. . . Why do you bolt the door? [if you do not open] I will shatter the door." She yields, and Gilgamesh tells her of the journey he has undertaken and of his beloved friend "resolved to dust." "If it is possible I will cross the sea; if it is not possible I will lay myself down on the earth, mourning." Siduri tells him: " Gilgamesh, there has never been a ferry-boat, and no one from time immemorial has crossed that sea. . . . Shamash [sun], the hero, alone has crossed the sea. Besides [?] Shamash, who can cross it? Hard is the crossing, difficult its path, locked are the waters of Death, the bolts are drawn."
She tells him, however, of Urshanabi, the boatman, who carried Utnapishtim over. Urshanabi consents to transport him, but tells Gilgamesh first to go to the woods and to cut a rudder sixty ells long. After forty-five days of danger, during which " the ship staggers and tosses," Urshanabi comes to the waters of Death. Through these waters they pass with only twelve strokes. At last the danger is over. "Gilgamesh loosens his belt as they approach the shores of the Blessed Island." Utnapishtim, who seems to be rather weary of this solitary immortality, is glad to see Gilgamesh, but will not permit him to land. So they converse from the boat and the shore. The narrative is here very fragmentary, but we can discern that Gilgamesh tells his ancestor the story of his life, his many adventures, the death of Enkidu, and the terrible sacrifices he has made to reach the Tree of Life. Utnapishtim, however, does not encourage him in his hope of immortality. "So long," he says, "as we build houses, so long as we set seals to contracts, so long as brothers quarrel, so long as there is enmity ... so long as the rivers' waves flow to [the sea], no image will be made of Death. . . . The days of Death are unknown to [man]."
To this Gilgamesh naturally offers the objection that Utnapishtim himself has escaped death. "I see you, Utnapishtim," he says, "your appearance is not changed, you are like me . . . tell me how it is that you have attained the life among the gods which you desired?"
Utnapishtim then relates to Gilgamesh a long and remarkable narrative of the Deluge, which occupies the greater part of the eleventh tablet. As we are not yet ready for this story, I pass it over for the present to finish the history of Gilgamesh. At the end of his long recital, Utnapishtim, who has become very well disposed to Gilgamesh, says to him:
"Now your concern is, which one of the gods will lend you strength. The life that you desire you shall obtain. Very well, go to sleep." Six days he was like one who sits lame. Sleep came upon him like a storm wind.
In the meantime, Utnapishtim's wife, who pities Gilgamesh, proposes to her husband that they prepare a magic food which will relieve him temporarily, and that they send him back again. The preparation of this food is singularly described. "First it was [prepared]; secondly, it was peeled; thirdly, it was moistened; fourthly, he cleansed the bowl; fifthly, old age was added; sixthly, he suddenly transformed him. Then the man ate the magic food."
Gilgamesh feels the effect of the magic food, but knows that it cannot permanently avert death. Nothing but the Tree of Life can do that. "Where shall I go? Death lies upon my bed." Then Utnapishtim grants his wish to land on the Island and tells the boatman of a healing, cleansing spring in which Gilgamesh may bathe and wash his leprosy away. Gilgamesh washes and is completely healed.
"He washed his sores as white as snow in the water, he washed off the leprous skin; his body appeared whole." He returns to Utnapishtim, who now reveals to him the last and greatest secret of the Island. Utnapishtim says: " You are returning satisfied and healed. What shall I give you that you may return to your own land? I will tell you a secret " (unfortunately this is much broken), " I will reveal to you the . . . There is a plant like a thistle . . . pricks like a piece of thorn. If your hands can gather it . . ."
Gilgamesh leaves his ship, piles up stones to enable him to reach the desired object, and at last succeeds in plucking the miraculous plant, which he brings to the ship.
Gilgamesh said to Urshanabi, the boatman, "This plant is a plant of promise, by which a man obtains life. I will take the plant with me to walled Uruk; I will raise a wood of it, and will then cut it off. Its name shall be An Old Man Grows Young. I will eat of it and return to the vigor of my youth."
Then they went on their way.
They left ten miles of the way behind them; after twenty miles they stopped. Gilgamesh saw a spring of cool water. He descended and while he was pouring out water within, a snake [?] came out. The plant slipped from him, a . . . demon came out and took the plant away. In his fright he uttered a curse. It . . . Gilgamesh sat down and wept. Tears flowed over his cheeks. [He said] to Arad-Ea, the boatman, "Wherefore is my strength renewed? Why does my soul rejoice in its life? I have received no benefit. The benefit is gone to the earth-lion [earth spirit]. Now, after only twenty miles, another has got possession of the plant. As I opened the well the plant slipped from me. . . . Who am I that I should possess it?"
After all his labors and sufferings, Gilgamesh has failed to achieve the purpose of his journey. It is true he has washed away his leprosy in the spring of life, and his powers are renewed by the magic food which Utnapishtim and his wife have prepared for him, but he has failed to retain possession of the plant that "makes the old man young again," and he must yet taste of death. Accordingly, he returns in despair to Uruk, where he celebrates the funeral of Enkidu and makes lamentation for him. The remainder of the poem is very interesting, as it reveals the old Babylonian conception of the condition of the dead.
[You go no more] to a temple. [You no more put on] white garments. No more do you anoint yourself with the sweet smelling fat of bulls, so that [the people] crowd around you for the sake of the perfume. You no longer draw your bow on the earth, those whom you have wounded shut you in. You no longer carry the sceptre in your hand . . . the death spirits banish you. You no longer put rings on your feet. No longer do you raise the war cry. The wife that you loved, you kiss no more. The wife that you hate, you beat no more [an equally painful thought]. Your daughter that you loved, you kiss no more. The daughter that you hated, you beat no more. The misery of the nether world takes hold of you. She who is dark there, she who is dark there, Mother Ninasu,* she who is dark there, whose form is covered by no bright robe, whose breast is like a young sappati animal . . .
It is remarkable that all the great epics of antiquity end in the attempt to solve the mystery of death. Every great pagan poem is haunted by the sadness and misery of the next life. The cause of this sadness is most plainly revealed in the poem. The next life is purely negative; it consists in the lack of all we have loved here. This must always be the way in which a spiritual life presents itself to men who do not live in the spirit. To them, the extinction of sense with its pleasures is the end of all they hold dear. And yet, miserable as men believe death to be, they feel a natural curiosity in regard to it. This curiosity is usually gratified in the old poems by evoking the shades and making them repeat the popular opinions in regard to the land of the dead, or by the descent of some hero or heroine to the nether world. In Gilgamesh, the former expedient is adopted, the latter in Ishtar's descent into hell. Enkidu is called back to earth for a short colloquy, and I cannot help thinking that the heavy and sombre misery in which the poem ends is more impressive than the more minute and graphic descriptions of Homer and Virgil. Gilgamesh goes from one temple to another, until, at last, he encounters Nergal, god of the lower world.
"Rattle at the door of the grave [Gilgamesh says to him]. Open the earth, that the spirit of Enkidu may come out of the earth like a breath of wind." [When the hero Nergal] heard this, he rattled on the grave-chamber, opened the earth, let the spirit of Enkidu pass out like a breath of wind. . . .
"Speak, my friend, speak, my friend [Gilgamesh cries to him], tell me the nature of that land which you have seen. Speak to me." "I cannot tell you, my friend; I cannot tell you if I wished to tell you the nature of that land. . . . Sit down and weep. ... I will sit and weep. . . . What you have done [?] Why your heart has rejoiced. . . . The worms eat it like an old garment. What you have done, why your heart is rejoiced ... is filled with dust . . . crouches down."
It is a great pity that these lines are so fragmentary. The poem closes, as Jeremias says, in a kind of rhythmic antiphon between Gilgamesh and Enkidu, which describes the joys of Valhalla awaiting heroes fallen in battle, and the unhappy fate of the man whose corpse remains unburied, one of the commonest beliefs of antiquity.
On a pillow lying,
Drinking cool water,
He who was wounded in battle.
(You saw it? Yes, I saw it.)
His father and his mother [hold?] his head,
And his wife [kneels?] at his side.
Whose corpse lies on the field,
(You saw it? Yes, I saw it.)
His soul has no rest on the earth.
Whosoever has no one who cares for his soul,
(You saw it? Yes, I saw it.)
The dregs of the cup, the remains of the food, whatis thrown into the street,
That he must eat.
Enkidu is represented as regretting the step he took in coming to Uruk. He curses Sadu, the hunter, and the priestess Shamhat, who took him away from his happy life with the animals. He wishes that "they may be shut up in the great prison." The poem ends with this sad description of the lower world:
To the house of darkness, the dwelling of Irkalla to the house whose inhabitant does not come out, to the path which never returns, to the house whose inhabitants are deprived of light, to the place where dust is their food, mire. There are they clothed like birds in garments of wings and do not see the light, but dwell in darkness. [In the house] my friend, which I inhabit dwell the wearers of heavy crowns, [there live] the wearers of crowns, who from the most ancient times ruled the land, whose names and memories Anu and Bel have preserved. There they prepare cold [?] distasteful [?] food. . . . They pour out water. [In the house] my friend, that I inhabit live chief priests and honorable men, live conjurers and magicians. [There dwell] the temple-servants of the great gods, there dwells Etana, there dwells Nergal, there dwells the queen of the lower world, the goddess Ereshkigal. [There lives] . . . the Writer of the lower world, bowed before her. [The goddess Ereshkigal raised] her head, was aware of me. . . .
This terrible land, so little known, was very naturally selected as on the way leading to the waters of Death.
When Gilgamesh saw them [the Scorpion-Men], his countenance was full of terror and alarm. Their frightful appearance robbed him of his senses. The Scorpion-Man spoke to his wife, " He who conies to, us is of the bodily likeness of a god."
Gilgamesh tells him of his purpose, and the Scorpion-Man describes the fearful dangers of the march through Mount Masu. Miles of thick darkness extend in every direction. At Gilgamesh's entreaty he opens the gate, and the mysterious journey now begins.
"He wanders one mile, thick is the darkness; it does not grow light. He wanders two miles, thick is the darkness," and so on through the twelve miles in the heart of the mountain. At last he emerges on the shore of the sea, and sees a magnificent tree loaded with jewels and precious stones, which reminds us of Ezekiel's strange account of the precious stones in the garden of Eden. Here sits a divine maiden, Siduri (a very obscure personage), "on the throne of the sea." [Note: In modern translations, she is an alewife and goddess of fermentation.] Seeing Gilgamesh approach, Siduri withdraws to her palace and bolts the door. Gilgamesh says to her, "Siduri, what do you see?
. . . Why do you bolt the door? [if you do not open] I will shatter the door." She yields, and Gilgamesh tells her of the journey he has undertaken and of his beloved friend "resolved to dust." "If it is possible I will cross the sea; if it is not possible I will lay myself down on the earth, mourning." Siduri tells him: " Gilgamesh, there has never been a ferry-boat, and no one from time immemorial has crossed that sea. . . . Shamash [sun], the hero, alone has crossed the sea. Besides [?] Shamash, who can cross it? Hard is the crossing, difficult its path, locked are the waters of Death, the bolts are drawn."
She tells him, however, of Urshanabi, the boatman, who carried Utnapishtim over. Urshanabi consents to transport him, but tells Gilgamesh first to go to the woods and to cut a rudder sixty ells long. After forty-five days of danger, during which " the ship staggers and tosses," Urshanabi comes to the waters of Death. Through these waters they pass with only twelve strokes. At last the danger is over. "Gilgamesh loosens his belt as they approach the shores of the Blessed Island." Utnapishtim, who seems to be rather weary of this solitary immortality, is glad to see Gilgamesh, but will not permit him to land. So they converse from the boat and the shore. The narrative is here very fragmentary, but we can discern that Gilgamesh tells his ancestor the story of his life, his many adventures, the death of Enkidu, and the terrible sacrifices he has made to reach the Tree of Life. Utnapishtim, however, does not encourage him in his hope of immortality. "So long," he says, "as we build houses, so long as we set seals to contracts, so long as brothers quarrel, so long as there is enmity ... so long as the rivers' waves flow to [the sea], no image will be made of Death. . . . The days of Death are unknown to [man]."
To this Gilgamesh naturally offers the objection that Utnapishtim himself has escaped death. "I see you, Utnapishtim," he says, "your appearance is not changed, you are like me . . . tell me how it is that you have attained the life among the gods which you desired?"
Utnapishtim then relates to Gilgamesh a long and remarkable narrative of the Deluge, which occupies the greater part of the eleventh tablet. As we are not yet ready for this story, I pass it over for the present to finish the history of Gilgamesh. At the end of his long recital, Utnapishtim, who has become very well disposed to Gilgamesh, says to him:
"Now your concern is, which one of the gods will lend you strength. The life that you desire you shall obtain. Very well, go to sleep." Six days he was like one who sits lame. Sleep came upon him like a storm wind.
In the meantime, Utnapishtim's wife, who pities Gilgamesh, proposes to her husband that they prepare a magic food which will relieve him temporarily, and that they send him back again. The preparation of this food is singularly described. "First it was [prepared]; secondly, it was peeled; thirdly, it was moistened; fourthly, he cleansed the bowl; fifthly, old age was added; sixthly, he suddenly transformed him. Then the man ate the magic food."
Gilgamesh feels the effect of the magic food, but knows that it cannot permanently avert death. Nothing but the Tree of Life can do that. "Where shall I go? Death lies upon my bed." Then Utnapishtim grants his wish to land on the Island and tells the boatman of a healing, cleansing spring in which Gilgamesh may bathe and wash his leprosy away. Gilgamesh washes and is completely healed.
"He washed his sores as white as snow in the water, he washed off the leprous skin; his body appeared whole." He returns to Utnapishtim, who now reveals to him the last and greatest secret of the Island. Utnapishtim says: " You are returning satisfied and healed. What shall I give you that you may return to your own land? I will tell you a secret " (unfortunately this is much broken), " I will reveal to you the . . . There is a plant like a thistle . . . pricks like a piece of thorn. If your hands can gather it . . ."
Gilgamesh leaves his ship, piles up stones to enable him to reach the desired object, and at last succeeds in plucking the miraculous plant, which he brings to the ship.
Gilgamesh said to Urshanabi, the boatman, "This plant is a plant of promise, by which a man obtains life. I will take the plant with me to walled Uruk; I will raise a wood of it, and will then cut it off. Its name shall be An Old Man Grows Young. I will eat of it and return to the vigor of my youth."
Then they went on their way.
They left ten miles of the way behind them; after twenty miles they stopped. Gilgamesh saw a spring of cool water. He descended and while he was pouring out water within, a snake [?] came out. The plant slipped from him, a . . . demon came out and took the plant away. In his fright he uttered a curse. It . . . Gilgamesh sat down and wept. Tears flowed over his cheeks. [He said] to Arad-Ea, the boatman, "Wherefore is my strength renewed? Why does my soul rejoice in its life? I have received no benefit. The benefit is gone to the earth-lion [earth spirit]. Now, after only twenty miles, another has got possession of the plant. As I opened the well the plant slipped from me. . . . Who am I that I should possess it?"
After all his labors and sufferings, Gilgamesh has failed to achieve the purpose of his journey. It is true he has washed away his leprosy in the spring of life, and his powers are renewed by the magic food which Utnapishtim and his wife have prepared for him, but he has failed to retain possession of the plant that "makes the old man young again," and he must yet taste of death. Accordingly, he returns in despair to Uruk, where he celebrates the funeral of Enkidu and makes lamentation for him. The remainder of the poem is very interesting, as it reveals the old Babylonian conception of the condition of the dead.
[You go no more] to a temple. [You no more put on] white garments. No more do you anoint yourself with the sweet smelling fat of bulls, so that [the people] crowd around you for the sake of the perfume. You no longer draw your bow on the earth, those whom you have wounded shut you in. You no longer carry the sceptre in your hand . . . the death spirits banish you. You no longer put rings on your feet. No longer do you raise the war cry. The wife that you loved, you kiss no more. The wife that you hate, you beat no more [an equally painful thought]. Your daughter that you loved, you kiss no more. The daughter that you hated, you beat no more. The misery of the nether world takes hold of you. She who is dark there, she who is dark there, Mother Ninasu,* she who is dark there, whose form is covered by no bright robe, whose breast is like a young sappati animal . . .
It is remarkable that all the great epics of antiquity end in the attempt to solve the mystery of death. Every great pagan poem is haunted by the sadness and misery of the next life. The cause of this sadness is most plainly revealed in the poem. The next life is purely negative; it consists in the lack of all we have loved here. This must always be the way in which a spiritual life presents itself to men who do not live in the spirit. To them, the extinction of sense with its pleasures is the end of all they hold dear. And yet, miserable as men believe death to be, they feel a natural curiosity in regard to it. This curiosity is usually gratified in the old poems by evoking the shades and making them repeat the popular opinions in regard to the land of the dead, or by the descent of some hero or heroine to the nether world. In Gilgamesh, the former expedient is adopted, the latter in Ishtar's descent into hell. Enkidu is called back to earth for a short colloquy, and I cannot help thinking that the heavy and sombre misery in which the poem ends is more impressive than the more minute and graphic descriptions of Homer and Virgil. Gilgamesh goes from one temple to another, until, at last, he encounters Nergal, god of the lower world.
"Rattle at the door of the grave [Gilgamesh says to him]. Open the earth, that the spirit of Enkidu may come out of the earth like a breath of wind." [When the hero Nergal] heard this, he rattled on the grave-chamber, opened the earth, let the spirit of Enkidu pass out like a breath of wind. . . .
"Speak, my friend, speak, my friend [Gilgamesh cries to him], tell me the nature of that land which you have seen. Speak to me." "I cannot tell you, my friend; I cannot tell you if I wished to tell you the nature of that land. . . . Sit down and weep. ... I will sit and weep. . . . What you have done [?] Why your heart has rejoiced. . . . The worms eat it like an old garment. What you have done, why your heart is rejoiced ... is filled with dust . . . crouches down."
It is a great pity that these lines are so fragmentary. The poem closes, as Jeremias says, in a kind of rhythmic antiphon between Gilgamesh and Enkidu, which describes the joys of Valhalla awaiting heroes fallen in battle, and the unhappy fate of the man whose corpse remains unburied, one of the commonest beliefs of antiquity.
On a pillow lying,
Drinking cool water,
He who was wounded in battle.
(You saw it? Yes, I saw it.)
His father and his mother [hold?] his head,
And his wife [kneels?] at his side.
Whose corpse lies on the field,
(You saw it? Yes, I saw it.)
His soul has no rest on the earth.
Whosoever has no one who cares for his soul,
(You saw it? Yes, I saw it.)
The dregs of the cup, the remains of the food, whatis thrown into the street,
That he must eat.
Enkidu is represented as regretting the step he took in coming to Uruk. He curses Sadu, the hunter, and the priestess Shamhat, who took him away from his happy life with the animals. He wishes that "they may be shut up in the great prison." The poem ends with this sad description of the lower world:
To the house of darkness, the dwelling of Irkalla to the house whose inhabitant does not come out, to the path which never returns, to the house whose inhabitants are deprived of light, to the place where dust is their food, mire. There are they clothed like birds in garments of wings and do not see the light, but dwell in darkness. [In the house] my friend, which I inhabit dwell the wearers of heavy crowns, [there live] the wearers of crowns, who from the most ancient times ruled the land, whose names and memories Anu and Bel have preserved. There they prepare cold [?] distasteful [?] food. . . . They pour out water. [In the house] my friend, that I inhabit live chief priests and honorable men, live conjurers and magicians. [There dwell] the temple-servants of the great gods, there dwells Etana, there dwells Nergal, there dwells the queen of the lower world, the goddess Ereshkigal. [There lives] . . . the Writer of the lower world, bowed before her. [The goddess Ereshkigal raised] her head, was aware of me. . . .
Source: Elwood Worcester, The Book of Genesis in the Light of Modern Knowledge (New York: McClure, Phillips, & Co., 1901), 225-249.