





































An Excerpt from the Novel La Maison du Joueur de Flûte 

 by Alexander Vialatte 

Translation and Commentary: Sylvie Blum-Reid 

 
These were such happy times when uncle Anselme had the pavilion 
built! I was somebody then. I was giving music lessons. I was the 
musical consciousness of the entire household. At the time, the 
occupants were few. They would all come; or when they were too 
many in the large living room, they would arrive in family groups or by 
age groups, or even in alphabetical order, or still linked by a deep 
kinship (I use different systems). What method, always! What 
organization! 
 We would put the lights on. They would fall into line in front of 
me, the small ones in the first row, the tallest ones behind. It looked 
like a family picture taken for some solemn occasion. I had composed 
small tunes that were quite successful: the ‘Mazurka of the Swallows’ 
always made an impression. Noémie would sing it so nicely! She 
would sing it with Rodolphe. As Noémie was taller, to avoid a funny 
contrast and upset their performance, we would place little Rodolphe 
on top of two bricks. At the moment when the C was sung in chest 
voice, it was so delicious that it made up for all my troubles; and for the 
refrain, everyone would sing, even General Chaiserue who had a glass 
eye, and Mr. Natural who needed to be led.  We could see all the 
adults, in the darkness at the back, opening their mouths like O’s. It 
was magnificent. I could not see this without being moved. 
  Uncle Anselme would sometimes grace us with a visit 
wearing his large red dressing gown with gold patterns. He would wear 
a black velour skullcap with a big tassel hanging above his ear.  He 
would walk in slowly, with a nice and proud face, an air of gentle ease, 
prosperity and a natural grace about him, he would look at the room 
with satisfaction. Everyone would stop singing out of respect, and I 
would blush. But he would gesture for me to continue. I would timidly 
protest. He would insist in such a flattering way that I would protest 
even more. He would speak in such spirit, such good manners and 
delicacy, that it was a pleasure to hear and reject his phrases just to 
hear some of the new ones more delicately and well put together. We 
could not stop congratulating each other.  Good education would 
flourish between us like a rose tree at the Jardin des Plantes.  
 Finally, he would sit in the big armchair and we would resume 
our chorus. He would look at the wall for the harmonious shadow that 
would trace with its stick some large cabalistic signs, shuffle, knead the 
music, slow it down all of a sudden, spread it, press it, blow it, raise it, 
and let it fall again into an abyss, recover it in a dry and precise stroke, 
bring it up in the shape of a spiral, and throw it finally towards heaven 

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as a frantic rocket while I would be sponging off my forehead.  The 
linden trees smelled nice. The hour was solemn. I thought I was seeing 
the rainbow. 
 Then after a while, uncle Anselme would meditate, eyes 
closed for concentration. (One could have said that the music was 
repeating inside him, and that he was listening to it from within.) He 
would only reopen his eyes, all of a sudden, in a bit of a jump, while 
listening to Mrs. Petitprince’s A.  It must be said that Mrs. Petitprince, 
very gifted with rhythm and feeling- was only able to give the A from 
high up while kicking the floor with her high heels, which would help 
the note emerge out of limbo through the twitch of a limb, like a horse 
kicked forward with a spur.  This shock, which would break a bit of the 
charm, when not used to it, would startle uncle Anselme. It might be 
said that his ears were jumping, and despite the dignity of his brisk 
gestures, it made you think of a milksman horse meeting a locomotive 
at a railroad crossing.  But this is where the resemblance stopped for 
uncle Anselme instead of galloping would let a surprised or marveled 
gaze at the audience, would caress in a flattering look the last row’s 
mouths, in the darkness, a row of slightly different O’s that looked like 
a line of writing in a child’s notebook; his eye would follow the invisible 
curve that was coming out like a golden dotted line, out of all these 
open throats, -that was bigger for the general- and would finally stop at 
the ceiling where a flock of birds was passing.  
 Next, he would swing his head from right to left, and left to 
right, just for two or three measures, and he would fall back again in 
his passionate listening, so much so that one would ask General 
Chaiserue (a trained cavalry man) to hold onto Mme Petitprince at the 
moment of the kick. She would then call him a ‘smotherer’ of talents. 
Generally speaking, all would go well.  Afterwards, uncle Anselme 
would leave. He would gently assure us that he could not sleep without 
one of these beautiful auditions, and leave, followed by a sad whisper, 
always leaving behind him a trail of good manners, and beautiful 
expressions. When he was no longer there, it was not the same thing, 
one did not feel the same enthusiasm; I would try to play the Polka of 
Mosquitoes, or the Celebration of the Warblers, but I could sense a 
difference. Uncle Anselme’s consecration of the ceremony was amiss, 
and his presence in his large throne-like armchair was missing, along 
with his large shiny and slightly balding forehead, covered with 
shimmering silk, his shaven double chin, similar to the Pope in the 
Chinese pavilion, so much so that when he would get up, one would 
involuntarily look for the pewter spur embossed on his dressing gown 
or in the hollow of the armchair.  
 At nights, I would see him in my dreams: he had the head of a 
horse that would praise to the skies, follow my stick and raise its ears 
following the A.  This solemn frivolity matched marvelously the red 
dressing grown, and its golden arabesques. Such happy times! These 
flattering visits, and large compliments that would unfold like some long 

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parchments adorned with elaborate letters, his large graciousness, and 
his distinguished meditation in the musical sanctuary, all of this no 
longer exists…. It was, I dare say, like a smoking herbal tea soothing a 
stomach ache. What an era! These polite people, these scales, 
arpeggios, and melodies close to obstacle races, this sweetness, these 
gathered tenants, musical and docile, their mouths open into Os in the 
warm darkness, what an era! What a time! What civilization!  And in 
summertime, just before the evening meal, when the smell of the 
linden trees would waft in through the two large windows!…. 
 
Commentary: 
Alexandre Vialatte (1901-1971) was born in the mountainous Auvergne region 
of France. He spent five years in Germany (Spire and Mayenz) as a civil 
translator in the army. In 1922 he became a collaborator and translator for the 
Cahiers Rhénans: Rheinische Blätter. He did his military service in Berlin in 
1924-1925, and discovered Kafka.  He eventually became the French 
translator of Kafka, Goethe, and Thomas Mann.  His first novel Battling le 
ténébreux was published in 1928 (Gallimard). A writer and journalist, he taught 
French at the Franco-Egyptian high school near Cairo (1937-1939).  During 
the war, he was mobilized and made prisoner. He later spent time in an 
asylum in 1941, suffering from hallucinations. His world was that of childhood, 
imagination and time. “To read Vialatte is to find again the kingdom of 
childhood” wrote Pascal Sigoda, a Vialatte researcher (Cahiers de l’Herne 8). 
He is said to have invented a genre, the chronicle, or the art of the short 
literary piece; these were about performances, but also philosophical essays 
about the times. Although he started writing during the war, many of his novels 
were published posthumously: La Dame du job, La Maison du joueur de flûte.  
In 1950, he obtained the Swiss prize Charles Veillon for Les Fruits du Congo. 
His chronicles were assembled into different volumes Dernières nouvelles de 
l'Homme, La Porte de Bath-Rabbim, Et c'est ainsi qu'Allah est grand, 
L'éléphant est irrefutable, Éloge du homard et autres insectes utiles and 
Chroniques de la montagne. Vialatte wrote about painting, paying special 
attention to his friend Jean Dubuffet who illustrated some of his work as well.   
 
In La Maison du Joueur de Flûte (1986, posthumously) a nostalgic narrator 
returns to his roots, and his childhood house in a village. The house keeps 
changing, as do the inhabitants over time. Many of them are children. The 
fantastic takes over. The owner or narrator, also a photographer, captures 
them in photographs, but somehow the shutter stops working and the shots 
are superimposed meanwhile all the household characters remain elusive. The 
narrator claims to be the ‘musical consciousness’ of the entire household. 
Musical references abound in the house, which haunts its inhabitants.  
 
 
P.S. I wish to thank my editor, Hal Rennert for his patient and informed 
editing and Miriam Zach and Willard Ray Kesling (University of Florida 
School of Music) for their help regarding a technical musical term. 
 

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