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Meredith's Plagiarism Note in Atlantic Monthly, 1881
"Contibutor's Club.” Atlantic Monthly 47 (1881), p136.
--A few days ago I happened to pick up an old and well-nigh forgotten tale by George Sand, entitled Lavinia. It opened in a very spirited fashion, but had somehow a curiously familiar air. I could not rid myself of the impression that I had read it all before, and yet I was positive that the story under its present title had never come to my notice. I had not progressed far, however, before the mystery was solved: it was Owen Meredith's Lucile in French prose. The names, to be sure, had been metamorphosed, but the characters, whom they served as thin and ineffectual disguises, were essentially the same. Lord Alfred Vargrave in Lavinia is named Lionel, and his betrothed, whom he is just about to marry, Miss Margaret Ellis instead of Miss Darcey. The convenient cousin John is with George Sand the cousin of the heroine, and not of Lionel, but he is the same easy-going, devil-may-care fellow, though he is masked with the name of Henry. Even the situations are, with few exceptions, conscientiously copied and whole pages of the most animated epigrammatic dialogue are plagiarized, word for word, except where the exigencies of rhyme or metre require a deviation from the French original.
The first chapter in both books opens with a letter from the heroine, who has formerly been engaged to the hero, demanding that her letters be returned. In both cases ten years have elapsed since their last meeting, and it is needless to add that the result of the perilous rendezvous is the same. To convince the reader how daring the plagiarism is, I choose at random the scene in which Lord Alfred comes to fullill Lucile's demand in regard to the old love-letters, and print side by side George Sand's French and Owen Meredith's English text:--
Lavinia.
Cette chambrette blanche et parfumuée avait, en vérité, et comme á son insu, un air de rendezvous; mais elle semblait aussi le sanctuaire d'un amour virginal et pur. Les bougies jetaient une clarté timide; les fleurs semblaient fermer modestement leur sein à la lumière; aucun vêtement da femme, aucun vestige de coquetterie ne s'était oublié à trainer sur les meubles; seulement un bouquet de pensées fletries et un gant blanc decousu gisaient côte sur la cheminée.
Lionel, poussé par un mouvement irrésistible, prit le gant et le froissa dans ses mains. C'était comme l'étreinte convulsive et froide d'un dernier adieu. Il prit le bouquet sans parfum, Ie contempla un instant, fit une allusion amère aux fleurs que le composaient, et le rejets brusquement loin de lui. Lavinia avait-elle posé la ce bouquet avec le dessein qu'il fût commenté par son ancien amant?
Lionel s'approcha de la fenêtre, et écarta les rideaux pour faire diversion, par le spectacle de la nature, à l'humeur qui le gagnait de plus en plus.
LUCILE.
VI.
This white little fragrant apartment, 't is true
Seemed unconsciously fashioned for some rendezvous;
But you felt by the sense of its beauty reposed,
'T was the shrine of a life chaste and calm. Half unclosed
In the light slept the flowers; all was pure and at rest;
All peaceful; all modest; all seemed self-possessed,
And aware of the silence.
---------------------------No vestige nor trace
Of a young woman's coquetry troubled the place;
Not a scarf; not a shawl;
On the mantel-piece merely
A nosegay of flowers, all withered, or nearly,
And a little white glove that was torn at the wrist.
Impelled by an impulse too strong to resist,
Lord Alfred caught, with a feverish grasp,
The torn glove, and flung it aside with a gasp;
It seemed like the thrill of a final farewell.
He took up the nosegay, without bloom or smell,
And inaudibly, bitterly muttered or sighed
Some rebuke to the flowers ere he laid it aside.
Had Lucile by design left the dead flowers there?
The torn glove? I know nothing. I cannot declare.
VII.
He turned to the window.
A cloud passed the sun; The breeze lifted itself, etc.
I flattered myself that I had been the first to discover this unacknowledged relationship between Lucile and Lavinia; and I was duly conscious of my importance at the thought that I held the fate of so exalted a personage as the late viceroy of India in my hands. A friend, however, who is crammed with bibliographical lore, relieved me of this dread responsibility by informing me that the discovery had already been made in England, several years ago, but had for some reason failed to make a sensation. The public and the press seemed rather anxious to hush up the affair; perhaps because it impeached the honor of a British peer, and thus reflected remotely upon the national character. At all events, I have ascertained that on this side of the ocean Lucile is yet generally admired as an original production. Among the many to whom I have communicated my discovery not one was aware that it had been previously made; and some were even inclined to question the correctness of my conclusions, alleging that in all probability the resemblance was only remote and accidental.