BY RENATA BEGUIN

What a sight it must have been when the world’s most famous conductor rode a single chairlift up the ski mountain in Sun Valley, Idaho.

 Surviving photos show Arturo Toscanini dressed in a suit and tie, a wool beret covering his head, clearly enjoying the ride. Newspapers around the world reported the event and the impromptu concert he conducted during his stay.

The Vintage Ski magazine ran a piece on May 13, 1950, headlined “Toscanini Relaxes.”

“Arturo Toscanini, famed conductor of the touring NBC symphony orchestra, rode the ski lift up the slope of 9,000-foot Baldy mountain during his “day off” visit to this resort yesterday. Toscanini and the 125 members of the orchestra stopped over here enroute to a concert engagement in Seattle. The orchestra is on a cross-country concert tour.”

Recently, while enjoying a concert in the Sun Valley Pavilion, I was reminded of a time when we were neighbors with Toscanini's daughter Wanda. In the spring of 1977, my husband Fred and I—newlywed-- became the proud owners of a run-down eighteenth-century farm house located on a high ridge above New Milford, Conn.

Half a mile away stood the only other house on our lonely country road. We lived and worked in New York City and could not wait for Fridays when we would pack up our tabby cat Mumu and exchange the crowded city life for precious days in the country. There, full of endless energy and idealism, we worked non-stop until, in time, our historic house became a beautiful, cozy home again.

Shortly after we bought the house, on a sunny day in May, two elderly ladies stopped by our blue mailbox. Dropping the gardening tools and petunias I was planting, I got up. Wiping my dirty hands on my jeans, I went to meet them.

The younger-looking woman said, “Hi, I’m your neighbor Wanda Horowitz and this is my sister Wally. We were friendly with the former owners.” Then she added, “They left some years ago and the house has been rented to a sect ever since.”

Finally, all those flower stickers on the ceilings made sense! Greeting them, I said, “I’m Renata, and back there is my husband Fred.” Looking up momentarily, Fred, bare-chested and hacking away on a large patch of weeds, smiled and waved in our direction, then continued his herculean task of trying to bring the gardens back to their former glory.

Wanda asked if they could see what the sect had done to the house, and I happily gave the two ladies a tour. I was guessing they were up from the city like us, Horowitz being a common name in New York. A couple of days later, we met our only other neighbors--a tall, distinguished retired professor named Richard Rush and his lovely white-haired wife Molly.

Insisting that we surely had no time to cook while moving in, Molly handed me a delicious homemade casserole as a welcome gift. They lived in the woods down a gravel path in a quaint cottage furnished with beautiful antiques. The place was surrounded by birds of every kind and evoked fairytale images of my childhood.

Everyone loved going to their house, especially children. Molly always pulled out an old trunk filled with interesting toys for them. We found out that her family had actually owned our house for over a century. It had been a much-needed summer escape for Molly’s New York family in the days before air conditioning when the oppressive summer heat and humidity rising from the paved streets and avenues made living in the city practically unbearable during the hot months.

When Richard and Molly invited us for dinner the next weekend, we learned that our visitor Wanda was not just any Horowitz but, as Molly emphasized, “THE Horowitz”--wife of the famous pianist Vladimir Horowitz and daughter of Arturo Toscanini.

One warm summer afternoon, I had the chance to hear Mr. Horowitz play. Gardening in our yard with my two little boys, I heard a faint melody coming from our neighbors’ open windows. Suspecting what was happening, I took my little sons’ hands, grabbed an old quilt, and the three of us followed the floating notes to the field adjacent to the Horowitz house.

Settled on our quilt, we listened in awe as the haunting melody of the “Moonlight Sonata” streamed out into the late summer afternoon. I could not believe my luck to hear the best pianist in the world play at a time when he had refused to perform in public for years. My 2-year-old Andrew and 5-year-old Julien, both hot and tired from the day’s activities, sat uncharacteristically quiet as they listened intently.

I told them the name of the piece, which piqued Julien’s usual curiosity. “How come it’s called Moonlight Sonata?” I explained that a poet in Switzerland named it so after he observed the moonlight on Lake Lucerne.

For me, the repetitive melody reminded me of moonlight shining on the fast running currents of a brook, sometimes the rushing waters and the music moving faster and other times slower. Contemplating that image for a while, the boys listened a little longer, then their eyelids grew heavy and they fell asleep in my arms.

Looking down on my sleeping sons, blond curls stuck to baby Andrew’s hot forehead and a peaceful calm expression on Julien’s pale, sweet face, I was reminded of just how much I loved them. Sitting in that field, my heart overflowing and taking in the wonderful sound of the piano and the delicious fragrances of the meadows around me, I thought: This has to be as good as life can ever get.

 Back in our farmhouse, the renovations were progressing well. One day, as our plumber Greg was finishing up a guest bathroom, he told us excitedly of his own extraordinary encounter with the famous musician. It all started with a phone call that Greg got out of the blue, earlier that week.

“Hello, this is Vladimir Horowitz. Are you the plumber who installed the system that keeps the humidity correct for my piano?” Greg, fearing there might be a problem, answered hesitantly, “Yes.” Back came the voice, “Could you please come by sometime this week?”

 They arranged for Greg to come to the house the next day. Greeted by Wanda, he waited nervously in the foyer of the grand house for the maestro. Fifteen minutes later, Mr. Horowitz came down the stairs dressed in black tie and lacquered shoes.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked Greg. Greg, nervous and feeling extremely underdressed, indicated with a shy, silent nod that he did. The next question came with a charming smile. “Do you like classical music?” Greg answered, a little less worried now, “Yes, very much.” Mr. Horowitz then thanked Greg and let him know how grateful he was for the system that he had installed to keep the humidity perfect for his priceless Steinway grand piano.

Inviting him into the music room, he invited Greg to sit down and proceeded to play for him for over an hour. Greg was still glowing with pride as he told us about his amazing private recital from Mr. Horowitz and of the invitation that followed to have coffee and cake with Mrs. Horowitz.

The maestro never played for us when we were over at their house for dinner or lunch. He also never ate with us, but showed up all smiles and apologies when the meal was over. Wanda explained that he only ate health food, and only in his room.

She was a most gracious hostess. Among her other talents, she had to be a saint to endure growing up with a moody and perfectionist father and to stay married to a charming but difficult and eccentric man. She told us how she had watched her mother manage everything for her father Arturo Toscanini, and that she knew when she married Vladimir Horowitz that she would have to do the same for her genius husband.

Sometimes she expressed a little regret that she was not able to develop her own voice and musical talent, which was, according to her contemporaries, remarkable in its own right. Her life’s work became taking care of her husband, including scheduling his concerts.

This frequently put her in impossible situations. One day Mr. Horowitz canceled a sold-out concert in New York because a stray black cat had come over the roof into their New York apartment. Then, only a very short time later, he refused to play because the cat did not show up for a few days.

We heard many more fascinating stories during the ten years we shared the ridge on the hill with Wanda and her famous husband. Sadly, it all came to an end when our peaceful countryside started to be inundated with more and more development, traffic, and noise.

Like the Horowitzes, we decided to move and say goodbye to our first home. But we would never forget the old house. Months of hard work had restored it lovingly and turned it into Tall Pines--a warm and welcoming refuge for many friends and family. We would also never forget the genius conductor and his charming wife.