BUDDENBROOKS
one white-painted tables, benches, and chairs stood placed among the trees.
The Buddenbrooks were by no means the first guests. A couple of plump maids and a waiter in a greasy dress-coat were hurrying about the square carrying cold meat, lemonades, milk, and beer up to the tables, even the more remote ones, which were already occupied by several families with children.
Herr Dieckmann, the landlord, appeared personally, in shirt-sleeves and a little yellow-embroidered cap, to help the guests dismount, and Longuet drove off to unhitch. The Frau Consul said: “My good man, we will take our walk first, and after an hour or so we should like luncheon served up above—but not too high up; say perhaps at the second landing.”
“You must show what you are made of, Herr Dieckmann,” added the Consul. “We have a guest who is used to good living.”
“Oh, no such thing,” Herr Permaneder protested. “A beer and cheese—”
But Herr Dieckmann could not understand him, and began with great fluency: “Everything we have, Herr Consul: crabs, shrimps, all sorts of sausages, all sorts of cheese, smoked eel, smoked salmon, smoked sturgeon—”
“Fine, Dieckmann; give us what you have. And then—six glasses of milk and a glass of beer—if I am not mistaken, Herr Permaneder?”
“One beer, six milks—sweet milk, buttermilk, sour milk, clotted milk, Herr Consul?”
“Half and half, Herr Dieckmann: sweet milk and buttermilk. In an hour, then.” They went across the square.
“First, Herr Permaneder, it is our duty to visit the spring,” said Thomas. “The spring, that is to say, is the source of the Au; and the Au is the tiny little river on which Swartau lies, and on which, in the grey Middle Ages, our own town was situated—until it burned down. There was probably
