THE WHEEL OF THE LAW
Four weeks passed, and Oman realized, dully, that September had come.
For him, Time had lost the power of flight. He took little note now
of the incidents in the life around him. He was in the grip of his
conscience, wholly absorbed in the pangs of a new suffering. The
consciousness that he was an outcast never left him for a single
moment. The All-knowing, the master, the Buddha, had declared him
ineligible for the serene life, had tacitly denoted him a creature
unfit to attain to any degree of peace. This, after the first shock
of discovery, was his chief thought. Instinctively, also, he clung to
another: the passionate decision that he should stand alone in his
knowledge. The broad inconsistency between these two points formed the
land of his misery. He dared not reflect on the workings of the Dharma.
He was forbidden, by every tenet of religion, to use his higher reason
in the criticism of religion. But he knew that he was, by decision of
the law, unfit for the Samgha; and that in the Samgha he intended,
bitterly, to stay.
For long periods his brain went numb with the pressure of thought
refused. Gradually his behavior took on an aspect of guilt; and he
slunk among his fellows like one who had committed far worse than a
Dukata offence. He fell off, wofully, in his work, in his comprehension
of the Dharma. He went through his meditations dull-eyed, palpably
unthinking; and the masters of the novices began to comment on his
behavior. Finally, he got into the habit of torturing himself, daily,
after the last meditation was over, by waiting till every one had left
the hall, and then getting out the manuscript of the Mahavagga and
reading his death-sentence over again, to make sure of every keenest
pang that lay in it, every drop of poison hidden in its innocent
characters. And after he had seen it, and found that it was real, that
he had not been under the influence of some baleful misapprehension, he
would steal silently to his cell, and wear the night away in woman’s
tears or fierce rages of rebellion that left him, at dawn, a bundle of
trembling nerves.
The load that he carried became nearly unendurable. It was lightened by
only one thing: when, occasionally dragging his mind from himself, he
looked around him at his high superiors, the doubly ordained. These, in
their dignity, their approachment to Arahatship, gave cause for highest
wonder at and admiration of their freedom from all worldly concern. He
envied, indeed, the lowest of the novices. But it seemed to him that,
if he could only receive the Upasampada ordination, he might, in some
way, cheat both himself and his god into believing in his fitness for
the honors of the holy life.
Poor Oman! It had been infinitely easier for him had he known to
how little serenity those envied men had actually attained! In
the strangeness and isolation of his lot, it was not given him to
understand that there is never a creature that must not bear its burden
and suffer under it, believing it a little heavier, a little less
adaptable, than that of any one else.
The poor novice thought that Upasampada opened the door upon a life in
which a tranquil and scholarly mounting to perfection, untroubled by a
single jarring incident from the outer world, was a natural sequence.
Those high beings, advancing with rapid paces toward Nirvâna—surely
their hearts and minds knew nothing of the battles, the uprisings of
self, the human desires and yearnings that he was forever struggling
against! Perhaps, indeed, the monks of the Samgha knew no such troubles
as these. Their difficulties were usually of a more ignoble kind. As
in the monasteries of another faith, in the far west, the Buddhist
Viharas, even during their pathetic decadence, were too often seething
hot-beds of rivalry and inward strife, thinly whitewashed with an outer
coat of obedience to precept and renunciation of the fivefold clinging
to the world. In the Vihara, a man desirous of attaining to Nirvâna had
not only his own weakness to conquer, his own nature to strengthen; but
he had before him the long battle of rivalry with those who, for every
step he advanced, strove to make him take two backward. The result
was, that the Samgha became a place of inner plots and counter-plots,
intrigues worthy of a royal court, stealthy meetings and conversings of
one faction or another, where obstacles innumerable were devised for
any man who desired to mount to a higher and holier estate.
Of all the men in the Vihara of Truth, probably no one had received
more of the miserable stabs of envy and jealousy than had Hushka,
the honey-throated. Greatly beloved—by more than Oman—he was also
passionately hated. It was now twenty years since his Upasampada
ordination; and in all that time he had known scarcely an hour when he
was not enduring the malicious jealousy of a rival. For a long time
now his opposing faction had been led by Mahapra, a man who had passed
his Upasampada a year earlier than Hushka, and who had caused him more
and bitterer disappointments and humiliations than any dozen of his
other enemies. And there were those of his friends who whispered that,
had Mahapra been out of the way, it had not been Sugata who stood now
an Arahat, at the head of the Samgha. Never came there a Pavarana,
scarcely even an Uposatha day, that Hushka was not made to taste the
venom of his enemy; and there was surely no heart-sickness that he had
not endured. He had suffered as few of his companions could suffer; for
his nature was delicately organized, and he was sensible to the most
refined stings of misery. With all this, Mahapra himself rarely caught
a glimpse of the wounds he inflicted; for Hushka had the power of
concealment, and the wisdom never to burden any one with a recital of
his own unhappiness. It was thus that, to an outsider, his life could
scarcely seem other than beautiful.
During the last weeks of the Vassa season the constant, hidden strife
that went on in the Samgha centred itself, curiously enough, around
the figure of Oman. In the early months Hushka, through Oman, had
enjoyed a triumph, for having brought from the pilgrimage a novice,
of Brahman caste, and, moreover, a pupil of such high intelligence
and one so devoted to the Dharma. The Sugata himself had complimented
Hushka on his pupil’s progress; and at this point Mahapra’s bitterest
ire and fear were roused. Too soon Oman began to give opening enough
for criticism and belittlement. His laxity in effort and the falling
off in his work and behavior became grossly apparent during the latter
half of August, while whispers and comments from the adverse faction
penetrated even to the Chaitya hall. From day to day Oman, absorbed in
his own misery, pursued his course unconscious of notice. And day by
day Hushka’s eyes followed him, in doubt and dread.
Long Hushka forbore to speak; though through the demeanor of his
pupil he suffered as he would scarcely have believed it possible that
he still could suffer. The Bhikkhu had lately been allowing himself
to believe that the thankless labor of years was about to find its
reward. And now as, little by little, that belief was broken down, it
seemed to carry with it his very vitality, till he had lost courage
to engage with Mahapra any more in the slightest controversy over the
commentators or the higher criticism of the holy books. Indeed, the
honey-throated was aging, visibly; and this Oman woke at last to see.
On the 3d of September the last meditation of the novices ended rather
earlier than usual, at about seven o’clock. Hushka, who was master of
the day, came in to dismiss them. He stood leaning against a pillar,
near the door, wearily watching them file by, till the last had gone.
Then Hushka turned to glance over the room, and beheld Oman still
standing at its far end, his face gleaming pale in the waning light.
Hushka gazed at him for a moment or two, and then moved slowly toward
his pupil. Oman stood perfectly still, trembling a little, till the
other halted within a foot of him. The two looked at each other till
the novice dropped his eyes.
“Oman,” said Hushka, after a heavy pause; “Oman,” and he paused again,
while the guilt-laden one grew cold, “art thou ill?”
For one, swift instant Oman looked at his master. “No, reverend sir, I
am not ill,” he murmured.
“Oman! Oman! Repentest thou of thy faith?”
Oman gave a quick cry. “No!” he answered.
“Yet something troubles thee. Canst thou not confide in me? Shall not
I, thy master, give thee help? Tell me, Oman, tell me what it is that
lies in thy heart. Do not fear. I have suffered too long, too well, not
to know compassion.”
Oman’s head drooped low. He clasped his two hands tightly over his
breast, and then suddenly threw them out as if in supplication. Hushka,
not understanding that Oman would have warded him off, took the hands
gently in his own. The warm, living clasp suddenly broke through
Oman’s carefully built barrier of concealment. He sank to his knees
upon the stone pavement, and his brain burned with the fire of his
knowledge. He was losing his self-control. As tears fell from his eyes,
his thoughts also flowed, till he was overwhelmed in the torrent of
his wretchedness, and crouched, rent with emotion, at the feet of the
troubled man who supported him.
The dusk deepened. Through the long, carven hall, eerie shadows fell,
and the orange light of the west melted to purple and then to black,
till the two were alone in darkness. Hushka now knelt by Oman’s side,
and soothed the youth with fragmentary words, till he was quieter in
his grief. There followed silence, pregnant and foreboding. Hushka
would not break it. Heavy-hearted, dreading unknown things, he bowed
his head, waiting. And gradually it was borne in upon Oman that
there was no longer any way of concealment. He must give utterance
to the truth: his tragedy. How he began, how he told it, he could
not afterwards remember. At first the words choked him, then they
came faster, finally in fury, till the pent-up emotions of years were
finding expression beside that of the remorse of yesterday. Hushka
remained at his side, silent, stunned, at first, by the feeling
displayed by this youth, this child to life. It was the first thing
that impressed him:—the silent suffering that Oman must have known.
Hushka could understand him there so entirely! He knew each smallest
phase, each bitter turn of the wheel of solitary misery! In his heart,
as yet, was only pity.
Oman came at last to the end of his strength and his confession.
Crouching there, numb, blind with tears, swollen-lipped, breathing
thickly and in gasps, he found himself, like one groping in a fog,
uttering vague questions—doubts—hopes.
“But it is true? Those words—are they the law, then? Must Oman follow
them? Must I be thrust forth? Master!—Help me!—Master!” And Hushka felt
the wretched creature clasping his knees in the darkness.
Then silence fell. Only Oman’s breath could be heard, rushing in
and out, like that of a dying dog. At this sound, Hushka felt a
sudden revulsion, a sudden despairing anger with him. Was Oman to be
pitied:—Oman, who had wrecked his, Hushka’s life, as well as his own?
The monk rose from his knees, walked across the hall, and stood at one
of the unscreened openings, staring out into the starlit night. Here,
silently, he struggled with himself:—struggled for justice toward Oman,
justice toward the Samgha, toward himself. Oman had not moved from the
place where he was at first. Only now he lay prone on the floor, and
his breathing was quiet. He was waiting, without any feeling, without
any emotion, for his sentence.
The suspense continued for a long time. Hushka’s heart was full, and
his brain reeling. Now he addressed himself passionately to Gautama,
now he turned to his own judgment. Prayer and reasoning, however, led
him alike to one conclusion—a conclusion pitiless to himself, pitiless
to Oman. Nay, the cruel result was inevitable. Oman had dared formulate
nothing to himself; but Hushka was obliged to face the situation.
After a long time, then, the monk went back to his pupil, sat down
beside him, laid a trembling hand on the prostrate shoulder, and began
to speak, softly, as a mother might:
“Thou knowest, Oman, that the word of the Mahavagga is our law. If the
Samgha knew this thing that thou hast told me, thou wouldst suffer
public exposition and expulsion. I, knowing, dare not let thee remain
here. Thou must escape to-night, quietly; and I will be here to—to
accept the consequences of thy going. I can do no more for thee. But
the blessed Buddha, the Sakya—”
He broke off, suddenly, for Oman, raising himself halfway from the
floor, had begun to laugh. Hushka shuddered as he listened. It was
so high, so harsh, so quavering, that it seemed as if it must go on
forever. But suddenly it broke, and melted into a long, heart-broken
wail. Oman was going to pieces; and Hushka sanely set to work to stop
it. How it was accomplished he scarcely knew. Under sharp command
and gentlest soothing Oman was presently quiet again, save for the
trembling of his body, and the little, broken moans that involuntarily
escaped him. Now that he had pulled himself together, Hushka left him
for a quarter of an hour, and then reappeared, carrying over one arm an
old and much-worn garment that was not yellow. In the other hand he had
a small millet loaf.
Oman was dimly aware of being stripped of his robes, of having the
other garments put upon him. Then he received into his hand the food.
After that he followed his preceptor quietly out into the empty
veranda. Behind them the monastery was still. Over the great world
beyond, the golden moon was slowly rising. In its light, Oman turned
a dumb face to the man he had so worshipped. He saw that Hushka was
suffering—suffering as perhaps high Sakyamuni had not suffered. Neither
one of them, however, could speak. Hushka, with an air of benediction,
pressed his fingers, once, to the cold brow of the outcast. Then,—he
was gone. Oman was alone on the brink of the world, irrevocably and
forever shut out from the protecting walls behind him. Outcast of men,
he stood, facing life. And, since he had already drunk the dregs of
feeling, mercifully his heart was numb. After a little he moved off,
unsteadily, into the faint-starred blackness of the ravine: halted,
went on again to the edge of moonlight, and then paused once more,
struck by some new thought, expectant, his head uplifted. Out of the
night came the sound of whirring wings. He opened wide his arms,
and into them flew a small, gray bird that nestled to his breast as
if it had been at home. Holding the mysterious creature close, Oman
proceeded, staggering, through the night, down and down the ravine,
till all the Viharas were passed, and a few lights, twinkling in the
distance, showed him the town of Bágh. Then, utterly exhausted in body
and mind, he crawled, on his hands and knees, under a spreading bush,
and, with the bird still warm in his bosom, gave himself up to merciful
sleep.