Family is the School of Duties
The afternoon sun cut across the arena, from in through the shuttered windows hung high above the western kickwall, stirring dust motes to drift lazily in the fading heat. Rarity was struck by the intricate whorls described by the motes, suspended and dancing in the slant of sunlight, reminding her of the blue paisley pattern on her neighbor Mrs. Troughingham's evening formal dress. She could almost smell her gardenia perfume over the rich must of the loamy arena surface.
Rarity loved that earthy scent, as she loved most everything about the Institut Pastern of Schuylcolt Valley. The barn, first a carriage service barn, then the proud home of a wealthy family, had been bequeathed to the school over half a century ago. The grand sweep of the barn spoke of the craftsmanship and care taken with every detail: the ancient timber beams hewn by hoof, dried and cured over years, sanded and polished with oil; the very tip of the front gable post whittled into the likeness of a heart (that ubiquitous Equestrian herzpfahl, crafted in honor of Princess Mi Amore Cadenza’s recent ascension); the front gate gaily painted a crisp spring green, with the school motto painted in High Equestrian across the lintel, “Family is the school of duties, founded on love.”
The children of the Institut Pastern were, commonly, the scions of the wealthiest and most important families in Equestria. They had come, scant few willingly, to receive training on the proper form of dressage and etiquette at their parents’ insistence. Rarity had begged her parents to attend, waging a three month war of attrition until her father finally relented. In those three months, Rarity used every technique of persuasion she knew: shouting, whining, crying, stamping her hooves; the silent treatment, the favorite parent, the golden child, the ultimatum. In the end, Rarity did not, in fact, “turn blue”, but she did get her father to relent.
“Attend, class!” said the Grandam of the school, snapping Rarity to attention. Her given name was Heirloom Davenport, but she preferred to be called by her nom de plume, Mare Manners. “Positions, s'il vous plaît!”
Rarity stepped quickly to her place on the quarter line with her fellow classmates. Inhaling through her nose with deep and relaxed breaths, she collected her weight towards her hindquarters and loosened the muscles in her neck and poll.
“Place your books, and hold!”
Rarity took out her copy of Emily Pastern’s Etiquette from her saddle bag, and set it upon her head, just behind her horn. She straightened her crest and elongated her neck to her full height, keeping her breathing slow and steady. The book rested snugly against her horn. She heard, but did not see, one book and then another fall to the soft surface with a deep and resonant thud.
“Saffron, Pewter, you are out. Please leave the floor.” Two ponies picked up their books and retreated to the edge of the arena.
“Good. Now, students: piaffe!”
The dreaded piaffe: a high-stepping trot held in place. Most students lost their books at the first step, but Rarity had learned to drop her hindquarters and raise her poll, putting all the work of maintaining the trot in her hind legs and leaving her forelegs free to swing without bearing weight. She held her poll high and pulled her first corners, always leading with the right foreleg, up and into the pocket of space at her breast and down at her stifles, then dropped these to the arena surface and raised her second corners into position. Her crest remained straight and relaxed, and the book at her poll did not waver.
Rarity’s ears filled with the sound of falling books, a thundering of failure, mixed with the rhythm of hoofbeats on the arena surface. She ignored the sudden cacophony, and instead concentrated on the feel of the earthen arena surface, a mix of sawdust and rich loamy soil that cushioned and muffled each hoof-fall. The soft thump of her hoof as it met with the packed surface was, in her mind, sublimely satisfying, as second-nature to her as her own heartbeat. The dissonant percussion of books and hooves leveled out, until only a trio of piaffing students remained. Mare Manners spoke again, “Very good. Now, passage!”
Rarity loosened her piaffe, allowing her body to impel forward with each step. Soon, she was trotting easily towards Mare Manners with the same high dance-like steps of the piaffe. Mare Manners guided the three remaining ponies to circle around to face their classmates.
“And, halt! Books down. Curtsy to your class,” she told the three remaining ponies. “Class, I present to you three fillies of consummate style and grace! Class is dismissed.You three, come with me.”
Mare Manners trotted statefully to the eastern kickwall, where a small office had been placed, incongruous yet elegantly furnished aside the edge of the arena half line. She cast a quick levitation spell on a set of fanciful illuminated certificates and a quill made from a peacock's feather. She quickly scribbled in the names of the fillies on three certificates and levitated, one each, in front of the waiting fillies' expectant faces.
She declared, with a voice that could quell the crowds at the Royal Court, "My little ponies, you three are the first in this class to complete your passage training. I hereby award you with these certificates of achievement for your consummate style and grace!" More gently, she continued, "I am very proud of you three...Rarity, you can put your book away now."
Rarity blinked once, then flushed as she quickly levitated her book, still perched behind her horn, back into her saddlebags. The two fillies beside her chuckled gaily as Rarity stammered, "Oh, yes. I am sorry Grandam, I was...I forgot it was there. Ha ha!"
The grandam smiled indulgently, as she shushed the other fillies. "It is quite understandable, Rarity. After all, you three have achieved quite a lot this afternoon and you have every reason to be excited. Your parents will be here soon, so we must get ready, yes? What is the rule we must remember?"
The three students recited, as one, "Shoes and coat and hat, in rhyme; collect your things, and be on time."
"Splendid! You know what to do, little ones."
Rarity held back and let the other two fillies trot off to gather their belongings, and then turned back to face Mare Manners. She hesitated, feeling suddenly shy.
Mare Manners, no stranger to the awkward adoration of her pupils, broke the silence, "Rarity, you look like you have something you wish to say to me."
Rarity tried to use her best manners when talking to the Grandam, "Yes, Grandam. I have a question, um...if it pleases you."
"It does, Rarity. Please ask your question."
She grew shy again, not wishing to say something wrong. She shuffled a hoof in the arena marl for a moment, then stood straight and still, remembering her manners. Finally she blurted out, "Mother will want to see this."
Mare Manners considered for a moment, "Rarity, it is a mother's privilege to take her children's accomplishments as her own. I know that your mother is well proud of you, my dear, but that was technically not a question."
Rarity replied anxiously, "Will daddy want to see this?"
Mare Manners paused. She knew Rarity's situation was unusual to say the least; her mother, Pearl, was in favor of the finishing school curriculum for her daughter, having been trained here as a young filly herself. But her father was not a proponent of the Institut Pastern, not a gentlecolt by any standard definition of the word, and not even a full-blooded unicorn. Mare Manners knew every family that attended her school -- that had been attending this school for generations -- and all were unicorn families with the most prestigious of family pedigrees. Magnum Opus was the son of a common earth pony, and his inclusion in the parent roster caused quite a stir among the alumni.
Mare Manners also knew that, as scandalous as the marriage between a unicorn of standing and a -- the term most frequently used was “half-breed”, but Mare Manners did not countenance such language -- everypony agreed that this particular "commoner" was a notable exception. Even the most powerful families of Fillydelphia loved a winner, and Magnum Opus was thus accorded every indulgence by the city.
Mare Manners spoke carefully, not wishing to upset Rarity further, "My dear, your father has a very...difficult job, and it requires his full attention. Your father may not always show it, but he is proud of you, Rarity. Of that, you have my word."
Mollified, Rarity made her polite good-byes and made her way to the coatroom. She gently plucked her favorite winter saddle, a couture creation of quilted cloth-of-gold with an exquisitely detailed cursive “R” monogrammed on the side, from the hook with a simple levitation spell. She removed her saddlebags with a deft tug of her teeth on the retaining strap, and quickly stepped into her waiting winter saddle. Another levitation spell brought her bags back up and onto her saddle and buckled into place. Rarity turned towards the front gate, passing by the rows of training harnesses hanging on pegs along the hallway.
The training harnesses were designed to assist the young colts and fillies on proper form and position of the hooves during a piaffe. Two wide canvas straps hugged the barrel of the wearer around the shoulders and just above the points of the hip, with adjustable straps along each flank to customize the fit and size of the harness. The two main straps had canvas loops that were placed in the pockets at the breasts and beneath the stifles so that, when properly adjusted for fit, a pony could lift a hoof and rest it in the loop. Young fillies, still new to the art of dressage, were instructed to place their hooves into the loops so their bodies would instinctively learn the correct stance and placement of their hooves.
The students had worn these harnesses all through the summer, and so were quite happy to be rid of them. All except Rarity, who rather enjoyed the clever marriage of form and function. The more she wore the harness, and saw the basic trapezoid of connecting straps on her classmates, the more she saw that most dresses followed the same basic structure. Building and fitting a dress was a simple extension of the two main straps, from withers to breast and croup to stifle, and from this simple trapezoid all manner of elegant clothing could be generated.
Lost again in her reverie, Rarity did not notice the receptionist step up beside her in the hallway. She lowered her muzzle to Rarity’s ear and spoke gently, “Rarity!”
Rarity started, blushing briefly, and turned to address the mare, “Oh! Ms. Damson, I am very sorry!”
Ms. Damson giggled, "Oh, do excuse me. Your father has arrived."
Rarity blinked; her father was not normally the one to pick her up from "the snob factory," as he often called it. Something was ahoof. Perhaps, Rarity thought, he bought the fancy drag coach they saw at Brougham Wheel's livery last week. Papa is here to show off the new coach and he will take me for a jaunt in the park! Rarity wondered if she was appropriately attired for such a jaunt, what with the weather turning so chill at night, but she was certain that father would have an extra blanket and a thermos of hot tea packed for just such an event.
Rarity bolted for the exit before once again remembering her manners, and slowing to a more respectable trot. She paused at the reception desk, and gave Ms. Damson her winning smile. Ms. Damson gave her a sly look, "Why Rarity, you look like a ray of sunshine, ready to shine all over Equestria. What could possibly keep you indoors?"
Rarity reached into her saddlebag with a levitation spell, and drew out her certificate of achievement with a moment's concentration. Still bursting with pride, she showed the certificate to Ms. Damson, who smiled indulgently. "Well, that is a lovely certificate you have there! May I ask how you earned such a commendation?", she inquired politely.
Rarity sparkled, "I completed my passage training today! You know what that means!"
Ms. Damson's horn glowed with a soft purple light, and up levitated a silver tray filled with cookies. "You may have one cookie of your choosing."
Rarity studied the display with a practiced eye. She was in favor of chocolate as a rule, but the harmonious decoration on the lemon creme swayed the argument to its favor. Rarity resisted grabbing it right from the tray with her lips, and was not yet confident in her magic to use levitation on something so small. Instead, she rested back on her haunches and said, "I would like the lemon cream, please."
“From your lips, to Celestia’s ears. Let there be lemon creme,” said Ms. Damson as she levitated a single cookie from the tray and held it carefully before Rarity’s nose, smiling conspiratorially at the filly.
“Oh, thank you very much, Ms. Damson!” Rarity plucked the levitating cookie from the air with her lips and curtsied. She waited until her entire body pivoted away from the desk before consuming the cookie entirely with one deft bite. Honor having been satisfied, Rarity stepped outside to the front corral to await her father.
The corral was a play area at the front of the school, with a stone half-wall that contained and protected the more rambunctious and incautious youth. Just beyond the far wall, a carriage driveway made a half-circle to and from the access road, with the apex of the curve butting right up to the step-stile that allowed students to cross over the wall and into their waiting carriage. The junior-most teacher at the Institut Pastern (currently, Miss Thimble) was given the job of Troll; she stood beside the stile and did not allow the fillies and gentlecolts to pass until it was their turn.
Right away, Rarity could see that something was amiss; there were too many fillies and colts running around in the corral and the queue of carriages had stretched back to the road and beyond. She could see Miss Thimble pleading with one Saffron Crocus (who was known to be the least talented pony by every student save herself) at the foot of the stile. Miss Thimble was making broad and sweeping gestures with her forelegs, and Rarity could see the impatience behind her mask of congeniality. She could see Mr. Crocus, standing beside his sleek Tailbury carriage on the other side of the wall, wearing a fine black suit and high hat, and the set of his jaw gave the impression that he was attempting to establish order through sheer force of will.
Every time Miss Thimble gestured, Saffron would flinch and point to the stile railing. Spiders, Rarity thought, it has to be spiders. Sooner or later, every student discovered that Saffron was mortally afraid of spiders.
Rarity scanned the line of carriages for a moment, hoping to spy her father sitting in the fancy drag coach that she just knew he had purchased earlier today. She would show off her new certificate while they jaunted around the park, and she would take her tea with a lump of sugar. It was going to be perfect.
Just then, she heard a sharp whistle and her father’s voice calling her name.
“Rarity! Over here!”
She turned and spotted her father lurking along the side of the stone wall, on hoof. Behind him, an old taxi-wagon was parked beside the road, and the taxi-driver was alternating between looking at Magnum Opus and glancing at a watch on a fob. Magnum waved once more and smiled.
Rarity felt her jaw clench, and again tasted the flavor of lemon creme. She trotted briskly to the side of the corral and prayed to Celestia that no one was paying her any attention.
“That’s my filly! Now, how good are you at climbing stone walls?”
Rarity blanched, as much as is possible for a filly with the palest of gray coats can be said to blanch, and turned away in a huff.
“A proper filly does not roughhouse in her finest clothes!”, she exclaimed, her voice made thick with icing.
Her father’s ears flattened against his head, and his expression hardened. “Look. Rarity, we are in a bit of a hurry today, and I can’t wait for that line to clear. I need you to come with me now.” But Rarity did not budge.
He sighed. “Alright, you asked for this.”
He placed his forehooves atop the halfwall, stooped and kicked with his back legs, and delicately placed his rear hooves next to his forehooves on the wall. He held this for a split second, perched atop the wall like a circus performer, then shifted his weight back again to pull his forehooves off the wall and stepped down into the corral. Rarity flushed, not sure whether to beam with pride at her father’s ability or recoil in embarrassment at the social faux pas. She settled on a shocked paralysis.
Magnum took a moment to turn himself around as Rarity came back to herself. She noticed with relief that the vast majority of ponies in the corral had not noticed the uncouth pony invasion, their attention instead directed towards the passion play at the stile. Saffron was practically in tears now, and when Miss Thimble (in a rare miscalculation) squashed the spider under her hoof, Saffron ran away screaming in terror.
The young colts and fillies reverted to the herd, and suddenly everyone was running and screaming around the corral as one. Soon, the rest of the Institut staff had rushed into the corral and tried to restore order.
Rarity resisted the urge to join them. “Father,” she said with a dash of panic flavoring her voice “what are you doing?”
Magnum turned to Rarity and said, “Here. I’ll lay down here, and you climb up on my back.”
“Father, I…”
“No time, sugarplum. Get on now.”
“Daddy!”
“I said now, and I meant it. Let’s go!”
She looked at him then, and was unable to resolve her internal conflict; how could her father be so kind and yet so uncouth all at the same moment? Should she be proud or horrified? What is the proper way to express both? She saw no other path before her, and hopped up on to his back and wrapped her forelegs around his crest. She buried her face into his mane in the hopes that no other filly would see her, or if seen, recognize her. “I’m ready, daddy.”
Magnum backed up three solid paces, stomped the ground with a forehoof, and then surged forward, his strength and agility propelling him to the edge of the wall in a single step, and then, with another great twitch of his frame he leapt over the wall with a graceful fluidity. Rarity glanced back just long enough to see all of the ponies, students, staff and parents, staring at them as they vaulted to the waiting taxi-wagon.
Not long enough, however, to see the looks of envy from the other students: not the young colts and fillies uttering their breathy “whoas” of amazement; not the repeated hoof-punches to the arms of their friends, not the crooked smiles of approval. Nor did she see the poorly-concealed, flushed, and self-conscious giggling from the staff.
~(R)~
Magnum Opus, the star midfielder for the Fillydelphia Manticores hoofball club, jumped from the taxi-wagon as it was still undulating along the furrowed and uneven cobblestones. His powerful muscles gave credit to his athletic build, flexing, correcting his attitude and ground approach in mid-jump. The sharp clack of his hooves striking the cobblestones rang down the alleyway that ran outside of the Salvation Pony depot. Quickly and quietly for a pony of his size, he stole into the trunk of the stopped taxi-wagon and brought forth a simple wooden crate stuffed with clothing.
He placed the crate upon his shoulders and turned back to the taxi, “Come along, Rarity!”
He smiled broadly as his daughter, a small slip of a filly with her near-white coat and a deep indigo mane, struggled out of the taxi. She blinked in the fading light of the day, eyes heavy with sleep, and trotted gracefully to her father’s side.
“Daddy?”
“Yes, sugarplum?”
“Why are we sneaking around?”
“We are not sneaking,” Magnum whispered, as they stole across the alley and into the Salvation Pony donations area. “We’re just being genteel; like those classes you’re taking. You know: proper.”
He could tell by her smile that his words had found purchase. She trotted beside him with an easy grace that came from hours of practice at home. If she were a different pony, she would have been a terror on the hoofball field; of that had no doubt. But Celestia gave gifts by what a pony deserved and not by what a pony wanted, and so Magnum Opus was gifted with a Lady for his daughter.
The donations area of the depot was empty, save for a few derelict boxes scattered throughout the tall weeds and a single stack of pallets leaning against the wall of the depot. It was just as well: he had no patience with fan-sprites and autograph hounds, and that was when he was alone. Pity the unlucky pony who dared cross Magnum Opus when he was with his family.
Rarity stopped, looking at the dusty depot. “Daddy, there’s nopony here!”
“That’s right, sugarplum. We’re going to drop this box off in the donations bin and head on home.”
“But then nopony will know it was us!”
Magnum paused for a moment, trying to find the right words. He had a brief mental image of a pack of fan-sprites fawning over their box of donated clothes, but rejected that line as being too creepy and difficult for a filly to understand. “Rarity, it is important to donate to those in need. There are ponies out there, cold and hungry, and all they need is a coat and a bowl of soup. What they don’t need is some puffed-up celebrity looking to make the local news by doing a good deed. It’s not a good deed if we brag about it.”
“Well, can I tell my friends?”
“No, sugarplum. That’s not why we donate our clothing. We are here to help ponies in need, and not just to make ourselves look good. True charity is anonymous; talking about it is bragging.”
Piece by piece, he drew the clothing from the old crate with his mouth and placed them into the donations bin: a stallion’s rain slicker, needing mending; a pair of mare’s heels, never worn; a filly’s fall saddle, clean but faded. Magnum felt his daughter rise in protest, and heard her sharp inhalation.
Here we go, he thought.
“Daddy, why do we have to give away my school saddle? It’s my favorite!”
He sighed to himself. The struggle to keep clutter away was endless, and any victory was often made pyrrhic by Rarity’s foul mood. They had talked about this moment more than once, but Rarity was not a filly to let things go. “Rarity, I know you like this saddle. I do. But it isn’t autumn any more, so you won’t wear this saddle again until you’re older, and then it won’t fit. We have a chance to give it to somepony right now where it will be worn right away.”
“But it’s mine!” Rarity whined, “and I want it back!”
“Sugarplum, we have talked about this. Your mother and I...” his voice trailed off at the sight of Rarity’s eyes, moist with tears. He knew, from experience, that stern lectures would only provoke an outburst of epic wailing and weeping, and somepony was sure to find out what all the crying was about. He gave her a kind look in spite of his own feelings on the matter, and squatted down to her level.
“Sugarplum, I know this is hard for you. Let your old man tell you a story, okay? Then I’ll let you decide what to do with the saddle. Does that sound fair?”
“Yes, daddy.” Rarity said, and dried her eyes. She sat down on her haunches next to her father.
“Okay. Well, as you know, I was born and raised in a little town called Ponyville. It’s a small town south of Canterlot. We didn’t have a lot of money back then, and times were hard for us. My daddy was a muleskinner - that’s an...old...name for a long-haul carter, but we don’t use that word anymore. Well, his job took him out of town for days at a time. So, for many days it was just my mother and me at home.”
“You’re gone for days at a time, too!”
“Yes, and it makes me sad to think of you and your mother all alone. But I do have one thing that my father never did: we never have to worry about where we will live, where our food comes from, or whether we will have clothes and blankets for the winter chill. My mother and I had to worry about all of that, because my daddy didn’t play professional hoofball. He worked for peanuts, and sometimes we didn’t have all that much to eat. Winters were the hardest. One bad winter I had to go to school with newspapers stuffed inside my coat to keep warm. Let me tell you, the other kids never let me forget that.
“I don’t want to scare you, but I want you to understand this. We are lucky! We have so much to keep us warm and happy that we forget what it is like to go without. Right now, somewhere in this city, there is a colt or a filly and they haven’t had any dinner. And it’s cold out, so they want a blanket or a warm saddle, but they don’t have that either. They might not even have any newspapers.
“So I guess I want to ask you a question. Rarity, are we doing enough for that little filly, who is cold and hungry?”
Rarity looked around for the filly, but saw nopony. She started to cry. Softly, almost at a whisper, she squeaked, “I don’t know.”
“There there. It’s okay.” He held her close in his forelegs, “I’ll tell you something true: I don’t know either. I’m only guessing. We may never know how our donations have helped, but I do know that Equestria isn’t perfect. So I believe that there are more ponies who do need help, and we have something we can give. And as long as we have enough for our family, we should give what we can.
“Giving isn’t always easy. Your favorite fall saddle is special to you, and I see that. But if charity doesn’t hurt, just a little bit, then you aren’t giving all you can. Could you tell that cold and hungry filly that she doesn’t get to have a coat this winter, because we didn’t want to give up ours?
“Now, before you decide, you know that daddy would never refuse you a saddle for next fall, right? You will get a new saddle that fits you and you get to choose it yourself. Now does that sound fair to you? You help out a cold and hungry pony today, and daddy will help you pick out a new fall saddle.”
Rarity trembled against her father’s overwhelming logic. He could see the internal struggle writ large across her face, but with one great push (starting at the ears, and working downwards) the struggle was won. Rarity deflated with a gentle sigh, and after a slight hesitation she nodded her approval.
“That’s my princess! I guess it is true what Mare Manners tells me,” Magnum said, grasping another mouthful of clothing to donate, “oo aw a fiwwy of cofumma fwyoe and gwafe!”
“Daddy, I don’t think she said it like that!” Rarity giggled, despite herself.
Magnum added the remaining clothes to the donation bin with no further protest from Rarity, who had instead settled down by the stack of pallets with an introspective look on her face.
“Okay, sugarplum. Here’s the plan: I will go check to see if the coast is clear, and when I give the signal you come running for the taxi, okay?”
Rarity, startled into awareness, looked to her father, then to her flank. She stretched and shook her legs for a second, then turned back to her father and nodded. Magnum trotted lightly to the rear entrance of the depot, cagily scanning the alleyway for any passers-by. He took one final circuit around the waiting taxi-wagon to be certain, and then blew a long and shrill whistle from between his fore-hooves.
Rarity came galloping from the depot and dashed into the waiting taxi-wagon just as Magnum had settled into the passenger seat. Her short and energetic burst of effort left her shaking and breathless, leaning against her father’s flanks. The taxi-wagon turned and took them home.
They were over halfway home before Magnum Opus realized that Rarity was no longer wearing her winter saddle, having donated that as well.
Author's Note
This was once part of a larger story (still in progress), and I decided to cut it entirely for being too long an aside.
Here it is, largely unedited, because I am just too pleased with how it turned out to throw it away.
