Jane Austen rides again, courtesy of Copilot

Years ago now, my niece Jenny remarked that my name, Lucy Melford, sounded like someone out of a Jane Austen novel. I hadn't thought of it that way before, but of course I agreed. 

I have never forgotten what she said. It seemed a rather nice thing to say, even if it suggested that Lucy Melford wasn't an everyday name, but one invented for a romantic plot. In which case, it didn't fit reality: long-term readers of this blog will know that I'm far from being governed by my emotions. My head definitely speaks louder than my heart where love and attraction - and indeed most other matters - are concerned. Still, I have always cherished what she said, because I like to be associated with Jane Austen's heroines. 

In fact I do rather like the Regency Period, or at least the social aspects of it for a person of means and standing, and if time travel were ever possible, it's one of the eras I'd like to visit - subject, of course to certain safeguards, such as a way to instantly return to 2026 if something awful might otherwise occur! The Regency Period was a time when women of good family were highly respected, and not merely assets in men's ruthless power games. Even so, women had only limited control over their lives in the early nineteenth century - for example, being voteless and shut out of professions - so that I would need to be a lady of some standing, with property and adequate independent means. Only thus could I remain respectable, and able to resist the pressing attentions of mercenary men seeking to marry money. 

It occurred to me to ask an AI chatbot - Copilot in this instance - whether it shared my niece's opinion that my name would be a good fit for Regency society. Well, it did, going into what the general reaction might be in plenty of detail. Here are the screenshots:

Ah! I like that 'comfortably gentry' bit. Bring on that manor house. I picture it as old and mellow, with warm and comfortable rooms, tasteful furniture, and faithful servants who feel very much part of the household.

This is now where Copilot, having volunteered to do so, launches into a scene that Jane Austen might have penned herself.

O that the real Lucy Melford were the same!

Of course you can continue the scene, Copilot! I'm hooked now.

He's got a couple of good lines, hasn't he? Whatever next? 

Oh Lucy, Lucy, be careful! This is a slippery slope that you have just stepped onto. Where might it lead? At any rate, you can forget your Elizabeth Bennets and Emma Woodhouses. They cannot match Miss Lucy Melford for personal presence and a zest for dangerous adventure! 

Like myself, the reader must been impressed as to how easily Copilot put that little vignette together. It seems quite surprising, given that a chatbot like that is designed for practical use, and especially for productivity in commercial life. 

In fact it seems distinctly out of character. Copilot condensing the long and tedious minutes of some board meeting, yes. Copilot suggesting ways to redesign one's cluttered back garden, yes. Copilot sketching out an itinerary for a blockbuster holiday, yes. But Copilot the subtle reader of human motives, and a close observer of the human heart? Upon my word, 'tis hard to credit it with talent of that kind.

Be that as it may, I am compelled to admit that Copilot would have written eloquently, enticingly, but tantalisingly of how the rest of the evening progressed. I fear however that Miss Melford might well have retired late to bed feeling that she had made a conquest that came with too high a price. 

How on earth is she going to escape the gentle clutches of Mr James Ashcombe? For even though he is incontestably a gentleman of quiet manners, charm, sensibility and perception, she will wish to retain her freedom to navigate the world independently. I can see her having to be forthright. Meanwhile the rest of the company at the ball will be talking of nothing else next day, and expecting to hear of a betrothal within the month! How can she release herself from that trap? (Ideally she'd press the 'back to 2026' button without delay, but that's not an option in Jane Austen's world)

Here's another thought, surely expressed hundreds of thousands of times already: if 'creative writing' can be conjured up so fluently by an AI chatbot - especially romantic fiction of the potboiler type - does it mean the death of the novelist? How would you tell the difference?