The old man gave Baum the requisite directions.
"You must also change your name. Rauhensteiner is too hard for their lordships. It is difficult to pronounce, and particularly for those who have false teeth. You must take some such name as Beck, or Schultz, or Hecht, or Baum. For, mind you, a dog has no name except the one its master sees fit to call it by."
"'Baum' would suit me very well."
"Well then, let it be Baum." On his way home that night, he kept continually saying to himself, "Baum, Baum--that's a short and easy name and no one will know me." The old man had made him swear that he would have nothing more to do with his family. His recent visit to his native village had reminded him of his pledge, and, although he attached but little importance to an oath, he found it convenient and, as he thought, praiseworthy to keep this one.
Through the intercession of the Steigeneck valet, his military discharge was made out in the name of Wolfgang Rauhensteiner--surnamed Baum. After that, he was simply known as Baum, and none knew that he had ever borne another name. He was perfectly willing to forego his chance of any bequests that might be left to him under the name of Rauhensteiner.
He entered the service of the court, and his first position was as groom to the prince, while at the university and during his subsequent journey through Italy. As a precaution, he had gone home and obtained an emigrant's passport, and afterward had dyed his hair black. In his native village, all were under the impression that he had emigrated.
After he returned from his travels, he married the daughter of the valet de chambre, and ever grew in favor with his masters. He was discreet in all things, and would cough behind his raised left hand. He was delighted with the name of "Baum." Such was his zeal to serve his masters, that had it been possible he would, for their sakes, have banished all harsh consonants from the language.
"That's settled," said Baum, as he sat on the box beside the postilion and coughed behind his hand. "That's settled"--and his face assumed a calm and determined expression as if he thought some one was watching him. "I've emigrated to America. If I were there, I'd be dead and buried as far as my family are concerned. Family, indeed! They'd only ruin and beggar me, and always be at my heels. None of that for me!" He watched the people, many of whom he knew, walking along the road. "What a pitiful life these folks must lead--no pleasure the whole year round! Once a week, on Sunday they get shaved and preached to, and the next morning the squalor begins anew. Any one who has escaped, would be a fool to think of returning to it again!"
Whilst Baum was thus recalling long-forgotten incidents of his past, Walpurga was trying hard to repress her tears. It seemed as if some higher power to whose sway she submitted herself had deprived her of thought and feeling.
With wondering eyes she gazed at the brooks that hurried down from the hills and then, as if to see what was becoming of Walpurga, would run along beside the road. When they dashed across the wooden bridges that overhung the roaring brook, she would tremble with fear, and would not feel reassured until they had gained the smooth road on the other side. She looked up at the mountains, the houses and the Alpine huts; she knew the names of those who dwelt in every one of them. But they soon reached a region to which she was a stranger.