Wordsworth Bolingbroke PsmithGender:
His mane is a fairly ordinary brown, brushed to the right of his face. Tail:
A neatly brushed brownEyes:
Long and lanky, betraying his Canterlotian origins. He usually dresses impeccably, whether in his school uniform or evening dress suits.Cutie Mark:
A speech bubbleAge:
In summation, Wordsworth Bolingbroke Psmith is an affable and loquacious colt of the upper class on the cusp of launching forth from schooling. He's at his best among company, and isn't snobbish to what kind he gets, as long as they're good listeners, and intellectually stimulating when they speak; and Psmith is the sort of philosopher who could extract all kinds of meanings from the words of the supremest blitherers upon whom Celestia ever permitted the sun to shine. He tends to be something of a dandy in his dress. He's rather more indolent than most colts his age, though he's always ready to help a pal out.
Flaws: He talks too much.
Ever since he was a young foal, he's chattered on. When he has nothing of sense to say, he's quite content to talk perfect nonsense, without the slightest loss of solemnity or onset of embarrassment. For all his garrulity, however, in certain respects Psmith is rather shy. The upper class ideal and the Public School Spirit have both given him the habit of keeping his deeper emotions hidden. Whenever he's wracked with profound anger, sorrow, or joy, he's struck dumb. Silence is about the only way he can express anything in that line.Likes:
Talking at length, intellectual stimulation, clothes that are well cut and comfortable, luxurious rest after strenuous activity, "spreading sweetness and light among the populace,"Dislikes:
Boredom, ponies who insist upon him shutting up, unsporting adversaries, anything actually cruel or mean, ruining his clothesHistory:
Early Life: Wordsworth Bolingbroke Psmith was born to a prosperous Canterlot couple, whose first act was to give him an unnecessarily long name. "Word Smith" or even "Wordy" would have certainly been a more lucid and accurate moniker. From a precociously early foalhood, he was babbling words, and the years never stemmed the tide, only enforced a kind of grammatical regularity about it.
The excessive length we may attribute, as we say, to excessive poshness, but the silent 'P' before the surname relates to a not-irrelevant bit of family history. The erstwhile ancestor of W.B. Psmith was a metalworker, living somewhere about the neighborhood of Trottingham, who happened to make a fortune at it. With this, his descendents descended upon the High Society of Canterlot, who would have nothing to do with those of the 'vulgar' trades. Thus, to blend in, every 'Smith' in their names became 'Psmith,' and so they made their place in the world, fulfilling mostly the functions of the silent letter, and not the spoken word.
His parents were a study in contrasts, and each had their influence over his character. His mother was a regular fixture in the social scene, playing hostess and guest alternately, and lost no time in inoculating the young colt with a desire and love for sociability. As the family's social position was rather on the lower end of the Higher Society, acquiring invitations to events rather depended on making oneself out to be good company and getting along with the hosts and the guests. Conversely, as a host one had to get on particularly well with the ponies below stairs, if one's own affairs were to be made worth attending. With his mother as the constant ideal of Sociability, the young Wordsworth would model his lifelong values after her.
His father, like most fathers of his class, wished for his son to make the family proud, in the occupation he saw as best fit for a Canterlot colt of a good family. However, Psmith senior was a stallion of hobbies, never having more than one at a time, and never one for more than six months altogether. Hence, the young colt was bounced from school to school, and from tutor to tutor, depending upon the idee fixee du mois, which could range from the gentlecolt farmer, to the higher finance, to the diplomatic services, to the military, to the stallion-about-town.
From an early age, therefore, the junior Psmith had a deep uncertainty about what his future would hold. As a defense mechanism against the onset of bewildered despair, he would grow to cultivate a philosophic attitude about life and its vagaries, treating the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune as entertainments brought forth for his amusement. The fact that he was not allowed to dedicate his energies towards any ambition for an extended length of time also encouraged the attitude of the spectator, as opposed to the participant.
Cutie Mark Story: The erstwhile Wordsworth had for some time been unsure of where his talents truly lay, only knowing that they were not in any of the things his father introduced and deserted in rapid succession, but he'd had a kind of hazy idea that one of the future trials might prove fruitful. His tutelage under his mother he viewed as a rest from that exhausting search, and one which he valued most highly.
It was during one period of this holiday of sorts, a garden party given by his mother, that Psmith junior was being shown around to the adult members of the party. His precocious language skills gave him a kind of popularity, though more as a performer than any kind of fellow attendee. Consequently, he found the exercise tiresome, and retreated at the first opportunity to observe the proceedings, which he did with a fascinated stare. It was during this time that the Psmith household was graced by its highest-ranked guest yet: a frightful dowager wielding a lorgnette, whose very gaze could wither those upon whom it fell with displeasure.
This eminent noblepony had arrived fashionably late, causing a stir comparable to the upsetting of a genteel anthill. She had a reputation for being very critical of every society function which she attended, which added much to the nervousness of the hostess and the staff, contributing to a stiltedness in the first and a nervousness in the second that helped the situation not at all.
Wordsworth had no conscious awareness of this, at the time. All he knew was that this mare's presence was proving distressing to a serving girl of whom he and his mother were quite fond, so he moved in to intercept the dowager. He walked right up to her, introducing himself in the manner of a stallion of the smart set, and paying her the best compliments he'd heard that evening. His youthful impudence served as an armor against her initial ocular artillery, giving him the opportunity to rise into a height of perfect piffle, which actually induced the dowager to laugh!
The tension had broken, the maid had recovered her poise, and the social graces were upheld. Psmith was quite proud of his acuity, no less so when he discovered that this action had earned his cutie mark, which marked him for another round of exhibition, to which he proved himself equal.
School Days: It was shortly after young Psmith had ascertained his special talent that his father, acting upon the latest bee which had buzzed it's merry way under his bonnet, promptly shot him off to one of the more prestigious boarding schools for colts of the upper classes. The old fellow felt that Wordsworth needed more company with his peers, and that young colt packed off with little complaint.
The school effected further developments upon his personality. Wordsworth was rather inclined to shun physical activity, but the schoolmasters corralled him into field for what they considered the minimum necessary school sports. This put him into some kind of physical shape, and gave him some creditable skill in cricket, but when he was off the field, indolence reigned once more. He was more inclined to hang back, and give commentary.
It would be untrue to say that he was completely inactive off the field, of course. Academically, he did nothing to distinguish himself, except perhaps in the matter of composition, which earned marks in proportion to how ready a teacher was to read through eight pages when he'd asked for an essay of four. However, he was as quite ready to rag the schoolmasters and live it up as any colt, an influence of his peers.
His attitude towards his fellow students at this time, and general attitude towards life, might be fairly represented by his middle name, Bolingbroke. This is an aristocratic corruption of another good sound pony name, Boiling Brook. Normally, he is content to burble along to any who might happen to stop by, but he is quite able to make his surroundings pretty hot, and whether he gives you the refreshing spa bath or merely drops you in the soup depends rather on how he feels towards you. Like the brook, he is not particularly strong in body or forceful in character, but in his own small way, he is almost impossible to stop. Even small streams are forces of nature.
At the point where our protagonist takes the stage, bee number one in the bonnet of elder Psmith, the idea of a boarding school, has been joined but not supplanted by a secondary insect, an idea that it would be no bad thing for the classes of society to mix in their mix of their formative years. Just as promptly as this idea came, he bounced Psmith the younger from his beloved academic home-away-from-home, into another institution, a publicly-run institution founded on the same lines as Wordsworth's father's latest fad.
The student bears this as best he can, but the disruption had disturbed his calm. He's a little more apt these days to rag, and take active steps in matters he objects to. But, he is not resentful, no! He is quite willing to liberally distribute his reflections upon life to the inmates of the mixed school as well, and he is quite able to make himself socially at home pretty much anywhere. He feels, perhaps, that philosopher may make a tolerable thing out of any situation, even exile, with a friend or two by his side...Example RP segment:
"What are you looking at?" A piggish colt, evidently having exceeded his mental growth in bodily capability, had just turned away from his daily routine of extracting lunch money from one of the young fillies who attended his school. Staring back at him solemnly was an older unicorn colt, an upperclassman dressed flawlessly in his St. Mareson's Jacket, Tie, and collar.
"A most distressing sight, comrade," came Psmith's sonorous tones, sliding out with the smooth polish of the upper classes. "These hard economic times do tend to pinch the moral nerves to excess, it is true, but one should be strong, and resist these temptations to exploit the weak. I don't know if you're familiar with Marex's famous Manifesto on the subject-"
"Aw, go off!" Grunted the porcine bully, not in any kind of mood for talking.
"Now, now, there has been but a minute since the first bell has rung it's note beyond the cloisters. We have time to settle this dispute down to its philosophical roots-"
"If you don't shut your yaphole, I'm gonna-"
"Yes, what are you going to do?" By this point, Psmith had subtly crept in between the bully and his victim, and stood a full head taller over him. The unicorn levitated a monocle from his jacket pocket, and looked through it at the colt below. "What recourse shall you employ, what resources shall you bring to bear. Shall you charge me, like the light brigade, braving the battery of my hooves? Shall you bring in the majesty of the law, and attempt prosecution- Now, here, comrade!"
The bully, patience at an end, had indeed charged like the fabled brigade, and was currently sharing in their historic ignominy. Psmith had simply placed one of his hooves on the bully's forehead, keeping him at a considerable distance from him.
Meanwhile, the filly had stopped crying, and was viewing the scene with astonishment. None of the older ponies had ever seemed to care about what this little pig had done, and now here was one absolutely humiliating him, without striking a blow. It made her giggle at the thought.
Eventually, the bully sat back, exhausted and frustrated, before turning tail and running off with a "Nuts to both of youse!"
Psmith sighed, flicking an invisible speck of dust off his jacket sleeve. "Such is the youth of today," He intoned, in a perfect imitation of his elders. "No respect for philosophic thought, no observation of the true nature of life." Re-adjusting his tie, he looked back at the filly, and bowed deeply, "I apologize for the scene; I really had thought him interested in economics. But hark, it is the second bell! We must not be late."