A Clockwork Orange / Заводной апельсин. Энтони Бёрджесс

Is it some devil that crawls inside you?”

      “Nobody's got anything on me, sir,” I said. “I've been out of the rookers of the millicents for a long time now.”

      “That's just what worries me,” sighed P. R. Deltoid. “A bit too long of a time to be healthy. That's why I'm warning you, little Alex, to keep your handsome young nose out of the dirt, yes. Do I make myself clear?”

      “Absolutely, sir,” I said. “Clear as a sky of deepest summer. You can rely on me, sir.” And I gave him a nice zooby smile.

      But when he'd ookadeeted[209] and I was making this very strong pot of chai, I grinned to myself over this veshch that P. R. Deltoid and his droogs worried about. All right, I do bad, what with crasting and tolchocks and carves with the britva and the old in-out-in-out, and if I get loveted[210], well, too bad for me. So if I get loveted and in spite of the great tenderness of my summers[211], brothers, it's the jail itself, well, I say: “Fair, but a pity, my lords, because I just cannot bear to be shut in. I'll just try to not get loveted again.” But, brothers, this worrying over what is the cause of my badness really makes me laugh. They don't go into the cause of goodness, so why the other way? If lewdies are good that's because they like it, and I wouldn't ever interfere with their pleasures, and so of the other way. More, badness is of the self, the one, the you or me on our oddy knockies[212], and that self is made by old Bog or God. But the not-self, the government and the judges and the schools cannot allow the bad because they cannot allow the self. And is not our modern history, my brothers, the story of brave malenky selves fighting these big machines? I am serious with you, brothers, over this. But what I do I do because I like to do. So now, this smiling winter morning, I drink this very strong chai with moloko and spoon after spoon after spoon of sugar, me having a sladky tooth[213], and I dragged out of the oven the breakfast my poor old mum had cooked for me. It was an egg fried, that and no more, but I made toast and ate egg and toast and jam, munching it away while I read the gazetta. The gazetta was the usual about ultra-violence and bank robberies and strikes and footballers making everybody paralytic with fright by threatening to not play next Saturday if they did not get higher wages, naughty malchickiwicks as they were. And there was a bolshy big article on Modern Youth by some very clever bald chelloveck. I read this with care, my brothers, drinking the old chai, cup after chasha[214], crunching my lomticks of black toast dipped in jammiwam and eggiweg[215]. This learned veck said the usual veshches, about no parental discipline, as he called it, and the shortage of real horrorshow teachers. All this was gloopy and made me smeck. Every day there was something about Modern Youth, but the best veshch they ever had in the old gazetta was by some starry pop[216] in a doggy collar[217] who said that in his opinion and he was govoreeting as a man of Bog IT WAS THE DEVIL THAT WAS ABROAD and was like making his way into like young innocent flesh, and it was the adult world that could take the responsibility for this with their wars and bombs and nonsense. So that was all right. So he knew what he talked of, being a Godman. So we young innocent malchicks could take no blame. Right right right. Then I started to get out day platties from my wardrobe, turning the radio on. There was music playing, a very nice malenky string quartet, my brothers, by Claudius Birdman, one that I knew well. I had to have a smeck, though, thinking of what I'd viddied once in one of these like articles on Modern Youth, about how Modern Youth would be better off if A Lively Appreciation Of The Arts could be like encouraged. Great Music, it said, and Great Poetry would like quieten Modern Youth down and make Modern Youth more Civilized. It's nonsense as music always sort of sharpened me up, and made me feel like old Bog himself, ready to make vecks and ptitsas creech away in my ha ha power. And when I'd done dressing I thought here was time to itty off to the disc-bootick[218]to see about this long-promised and long-ordered stereo Beethoven Number Nine[219]. So out I went, brothers.

      The day was very different from the night. The night belonged to me and my droogs and all the rest of the nadsats, and the starry bourgeois stayed indoors drinking in the gloopy worldcasts, but the day was for the starry ones, and there always seemed to be more rozzes or millicents about during the day, too. I got the autobus from the corner and rode to Center, and then I walked back to Taylor Place, and there was the disc-bootick I favoured. It had the gloopy name of MELODIA, but it was a real horrorshow mesto and skorry, most times, at getting the new recordings. I walked in and the only other customers were two young ptitsas sucking away at ice-sticks. These two ptitsas couldn't have been more than ten, and they too, like me, it seemed, evidently, had decided to take the morning off from the old skolliwoll. They saw themselves, you could see, as real grown-up devotchkas already, what with the old hip-swing when they saw your Faithful Narrator[220], and padded groodies and red all put on their goobers. I went up to the counter, smiling at old Andy behind it. Hesaid:

      “Aha. I know what you want, I think. Good news, good news. It has arrived.” And he went to get it. The two young ptitsas started giggling, as they will at that age, and I gave them a like cold glazzy. Andy was back real skorry, waving the great shiny Ninth, which had on it, brothers, the frowning litso of Ludwig van himself. “Here,” said Andy. “Shall we give it the trial spin?[221]” But I wanted it back home on my stereo to slooshy on my oddy knocky. I fumbled out the deng to pay and one of the little ptitsas said:

      “Who you getten, bratty[222]? What biggy, what only?” These young devotchkas had their own like way of govoreeting. And both giggled. Then an idea hit me and made me near fall over with the ecstasy of it, so I could not breathe for near ten seconds. I recovered and made with my new-clean zoobies and said: “What you got back home, little sisters, to play your new discs on? Come with uncle,” I said, “and hear all proper. You are invited.” And I like bowed. They giggled again and one said: “Oh, but we're so hungry. Oh, but we could so eat.” The other said: “Yah, she can say that.” So I said: “Eat with uncle. Name your place.”

      Then they viddied themselves as real sophistoes[223], which was like pathetic, and started talking in big-lady golosses about the Ritz and the Bristol and the Hilton. But I stopped that with “Follow uncle,” and I led them to the Pasta Parlour just round the corner and let them fill their innocent young litsos on spaghetti and sausages and cream-puffs and banana-splits and hot choc-sauce, till I near sicked with the sight of it, I, brothers, lunching a cold ham-slice and a dollop of chilli. These two young ptitsas were much alike, though not sisters. They had the same ideas, and the same colour hair. Well, they would grow up real today. Today I would make a day of it. No school this afterlunch, but education certain, Alex as teacher. Their names, they said, were Marty and Sonietta, bezoomny enough and in the height of their childish fashion, so I said:

      “Righty right, Marty and Sonietta. Time for the big spin. Come.” When we were outside on the cold street they thought they would not go by autobus, oh no, but by taxi, so I called a taxi from the rank near Center. The driver, a starry veck in very stained platties, said: “No tearing up, now. No nonsense with them seats. Just re-upholstered they are.” I quieted his gloopy fears and off we went to Municipal Flatblock 18A, these two bold little ptitsas giggling and whispering. So, to cut all short, we arrived, and I led the way up to 10-8, and they panted and smecked away the way up, and then they were thirsty, they said, so I unlocked the treasure-chest in my room and gave these ten-year-young devotchkas a real horrorshow Scotchman apiece, though well filled with soda. They sat on my bed, smecking and peeting their highballs, while I spun their like pathetic malenky discs through my stereo. While I spun this cal for them I encouraged them to drink and have another, and they didn't mind. So by the time their pathetic pop-discs had been twice spun each they were getting near the pitch of like young ptitsa's hysterics, what with jumping all over my

209

уходить

210

ловить, поймать

211

несмотря на мой нежный возраст

212

отдельно взятая личность может быть плохой

213

сладкий зуб, сластёна

214

чашка

215

джем и яйцо (слова, придуманные автором)

216

поп

217

собачий ошейник, высокий воротник

218

бутик

219

Девятая симфония Л. ван Бетховена

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преданный вам рассказчик

221

Хотите прослушать?

222

братец

223

бывалые/тёртые девицы