Cyrano Gets Outwooed by a Chatbot

When I first got my hands on ChatGPT, I pummeled it with a flurry of random, increasingly whacky prompts. It was fun and eye-opening, giving me a first-hand sense of its power, how to get from it what you needed or close to what you wanted, and its limitations. I grouped the results under “#stupidAITricks, but I couldn’t find this one…until I discovered it in an email stuck in my drafts folder. My early impressions of ChatGP were probably like yours: a combination of disbelief and awe. Some of the ideas I threw at it required multiple prompts to get a fair to amazing result, but its ability to craft a scene in perfectly serviceable iambic pentameter that “plays” - yes, I had to give it several nudges and swift kicks in the ass, but still - was and remains one of its more impressive achievements, at least in my experience.?????

Even if you missed Edward Rostand’s Cyrano de Bergerac in high school English or didn’t see the Steve Martin film Roxanne on which it was based, you know the plot: a noble yet insecure poet and swordsman, Cyrano, secretly loves his cousin Roxane but believes his large nose makes him unworthy of her attentions (“How serves that oblong capsular?”). He helps the handsome but tongue-tied Christian woo Roxane by writing love letters on his behalf, but years later, Roxane discovers too late that it was Cyrano’s words she truly loved as he dies tragically.

I asked ChatGPT to imagine the following scenario: Lately, Christian has used ChatGPT to create verses that he maintains are just as effective as Cyrano’s. He hesitantly brings this to Cyrano's attention. Cyrano is floored - he cannot believe that anyone, let alone a chatbot, is capable of writing verse equal to his in wooing Roxanne. He asks Christian for examples of his rival’s verse; Christian obliges. A crestfallen Cyrano realizes he’s met his match.???

Setting: A dimly lit garden at dusk. The sky, a mixture of purples and oranges, casts long shadows over a stone bench and a few rose bushes. Cyrano stands beneath a tree, his arms crossed, his hat tilted slightly forward, casting a shadow over his eyes. Christian, pacing nervously, holds a small device in his hand—a tablet or phone. He glances at Cyrano, unsure how to broach the subject.

Christian (hesitant, but excited): Cyrano, my friend, I’ve news, most curious, strange — Our ways of wooing, well, they’ve begun to change. The letters that we’ve sent, the words you’ve penned— They’ve brought Roxanne to me, yet I now depend... On something new—a tool that’s... swift and smart, That offers verses from a digital heart.

Cyrano (archly, stepping forward, his voice biting yet curious): A tool, you say? Oh, Christian, pray explain— What novelty is this, born of what brain? You think a gadget, some lifeless piece of glass, Can best the art that ages past amass?

Christian (diplomatically, smiling to soften the blow): Not a tool of flesh, but one of thought and code, It answers quick—it’s called ChatGPT, I’m told. With prompts and questions, it crafts lines so fine— It writes the verses I’ve since claimed as mine.

Cyrano stiffens, his eyes narrowing. He speaks slowly, each word loaded with disbelief.

Cyrano (incredulously): You jest, my friend! This—thing of circuits cold? No warmth, no heart, no passion to behold? A machine that writes of love, of life’s sweet art? What madness grips your mind—has it no start?

Christian (eagerly, holding out the tablet): But listen, Cyrano, listen—let me show. These verses here, I’ve used them, let them flow. When Roxanne read them, she was moved, impressed, She called them tender, gentle, and the best.

Cyrano eyes the device, still skeptical but intrigued. Slowly, with a flourish, Christian scrolls and clears his throat, reading aloud.

Christian (reading from his phone): "Your eyes, twin orbs that hold the stars at bay, In them, I see a light to guide my way. Your voice, a melody both soft and bright, It whispers love to me through darkest night."

Cyrano’s expression hardens as he listens, his jaw tightening. He paces restlessly, a deep frown furrowing his brow.

Cyrano (mocking): Ah, yes, how neat! How measured, perfectly! But where’s the spark? The wild sincerity? It speaks of eyes and stars—like countless before, But does it burn, does it ache—does it soar?

Christian (defensive, but kind): But still, Roxanne—she smiled upon this line, She called it sweet—she said the words were mine. I must confess, I feared her heart would know, But, Cyrano, she did not see it so!

Cyrano, visibly shaken, clasps his hands behind his back. He stares at the sky, lost in thought. His voice drops to a softer, more melancholic tone.

Cyrano (softly, to himself): She swooned for words—yet words not born of flame, Not from a poet’s soul, nor from the same Fierce fires that fuel the heart and burn with pain. This... thing, it speaks, but does it feel disdain? Or joy? Or grief? Or love’s sweet agony? A chatbot writes, but has no memory.

Cyrano turns sharply, facing Christian. His eyes flash with a mix of pride and sorrow.

Cyrano (defiantly): These words, they trick, they mimic, yes, indeed, But they do not suffer, nor truly bleed. I am no match, it seems, for this new age— But remember, Christian, poetry’s true gauge: It lies not in the meter, rhyme, or grace— But in the heart, the soul that’s in its place.

Christian, seeing Cyrano’s pain, steps forward, trying to comfort him.

Christian (earnestly): I never meant to wound you, dear Cyrano, Your words, your heart—they move her still, you know. I only thought this tool could ease the strain, For surely even you must bear the pain Of endless crafting, sleepless nights alone— Perhaps together we can share the throne?

Cyrano lets out a bitter laugh, his hand lifting dramatically to his chest.

Cyrano (with tragic humor): The throne, you say? A throne for one who speaks— Not from the soul, but what a machine seeks? The ease you seek is false, my friend, beware— For love is hard, it’s toil, it’s gasping air! To woo with ease is to strip love’s true worth, To make it cheap, to rob it of its birth!

Cyrano turns away, looking out into the distance. The weight of the modern world seems to press on his shoulders, but his pride holds him upright.

Cyrano (quietly, his back to Christian): I have been bested—yes, by lines of code. A hollow victory in a hollow mode. Let it woo her, then, with lifeless, perfect grace— But know this, Christian—it’s left no trace Of passion, no trembling hand that wrote, No lover’s whisper caught in a choked throat.

Christian steps closer, his voice gentle, pleading.

Christian (softly): But Cyrano, your words still matter more. They hold her heart—they guide her to the shore. The AI may write, but it cannot replace The heart that fought for her, with all its grace.

Cyrano turns slowly, his eyes glistening. He offers a sad, resigned smile to Christian.

Cyrano (softly, yet with dignity): Perhaps, dear friend, perhaps you speak it true. But still, my words, they now are worn, askew. For if a machine can write the same as I— Then what remains of this poor poet’s cry?

Cyrano sighs, lowering his head. He takes off his hat and holds it to his chest.

Cyrano (quietly): Farewell, my art, my love, my words once bold— The world has changed, its heart grown still and cold.

Cyrano walks slowly offstage, his figure shrinking into the shadows as Christian watches, torn between triumph and guilt.

End Scene.