There was a time when the name of Nikolai Karazin—a nobleman from the Kharkiv Governorate, the creator of the first artistic postcards, and the grandson of Vasily Nazarovich Karazin—was known to many people both in the Russian Empire and throughout Europe.
However, few people today remember this once-famous artist and writer. The “Alluring Kharkiv” Foundation frequently published articles and held lectures dedicated to the great-grandson of an equally great grandfather.
However, it is one thing to look at paintings created by the hand of a genius, and quite another to hear him speak. That is why today we present an interview with Nikolai Nikolayevich Karazin, conducted by journalist N. Breshko-Breshkovsky and published in Issue No. 41 of the magazine *Ogonyok* in 1903…
Perhaps because of this, the wonderful Nikolai Nikolaevich will seem just a little more alive and closer to some people…
At N.N. Karazin’s
The name Nikolai Nikolayevich Karazin enjoys immense popularity. Karazin is probably just as well known in Russia as Nemirovich-Danchenko. Many people, including the author of these lines, have devoured Karazin’s captivating novels, such as *The Two-Legged Wolf* and *The Chase for Profit*. Who isn’t familiar with the countless illustrations created in the distinctive “Karazin” style, where the visual artist rivals the fiction writer in the richness of his imagination?
– We’re late!
The most charming N.N. Karazin greeted me briefly, looking up from a piece of cardboard on which his fine, bold brush had managed to paint, over the course of the morning, an entire scene from life in our far, far North.
“I just sent about twenty pieces to Moscow for a watercolor exhibition. If you’d come a little earlier, you could have seen them!
” I could only regret that I had done so, and I did so quite sincerely.
“I can, however, show you something.” And with those words, Nikolai Nikolayevich opened a thick folder
. “Here are a few illustrations for Turgenev’s *A Hunter’s Sketches*.”There was a great deal of that purely Russian, shy charm in these little stories, where a whole gallery of characters passed before your eyes: the mustachioed, bristling savage Chertopkhanov; the dignified, self-assured Khor, and the homeless vagrant Ermolai with his immortal Valetka, and the group of white-haired children around the campfire on Bezhin Meadow…
This serene black-soil landscape suddenly gave way to sheer cliffs reaching toward the heavens, along whose paths brave horsemen slowly made their way…
“And these,” Karazin explained, “are a series of illustrations for my story ‘The Dzhigits,’ which I promised to contribute to the magazine *Nature and People*.”
While the artist was finishing his new drawing, I carefully examined the walls of his studio, which were covered from top to bottom with paintings and sketches. Many first-rate names. Bonna’s enchanting “Model” and, next to it, portraits of Karazin’s ancestors by Lampi Sr. Kalyam, Aivazovsky, Zichi, Meshchersky, Pyotr Sokolov, Lagorio, Tomashevsky-Boncha…
“You’ve got a whole museum here, Nikolai Nikolayevich!
” “There are a lot of fine pieces,” agreed the distinguished artist and writer, without looking up from the cardboard over which his magical brush was darting nimbly. “But when I have some free time, I’ll show you my portfolios. They contain thousands of original drawings by our finest artists…”I asked Karazin a question that had long intrigued me: Which does he lean toward more in his creative work—literature or painting?
– I love both equally. Not the slightest difference, not the slightest preference. Sometimes I’m seized by a “fictional fever,” and I write, as they say, in one go—a novel or a novella—until I’m finished. During those times, I forget that pencils or paintbrushes even exist. Or, on the contrary, I’ll spend entire days and evenings drawing, and—even if some publisher were to pay me a fortune—I wouldn’t write a single line of fiction during that time…
Karazin fell into thought…
– It took a lot of work. I stepped into the spotlight as both an artist and a writer at the same time—on the very same day, at the very same moment. I published a short story with my own illustrations. That was a long time ago—thirty-three years ago! Since then, I’ve drawn more than ten thousand illustrations and written more than twenty books like that…
Nikolai Nikolayevich picked up an elegant little volume of his newly published novel *From North to South* from the table and handed it to me.
“I’ve finally begun work on a complete collection of my writings. It’s about time!”
“So, in two years it will be your thirty-fifth anniversary?
” “If you like, yes, but I’m inclined to consider the fortieth anniversary more significant
.” “You have so many sincere friends; they’ll be overjoyed to celebrate this milestone with you.”The talented artist replied with a smile:
“Thank God, people love me—but, you know, who do you think will be most pleased with my anniversary?
” “Who?
” “My publisher… After all, books by authors celebrating an anniversary sell almost ten times faster than usual
.” “That’s true.” But Nikolai Nikolayevich, it seems a bit unfair for you to complain! Your novels have gone through several printings.Karazin modestly remained silent.
They began talking about Nikolai Nikolayevich’s experiences in Turkestan.
– Now, looking back thirty years later, many of my adventures seem almost legendary. What haven’t I been through?! There were times when I nearly starved and died of thirst in the arid Caspian steppes. There were times when I attacked large groups of horsemen with just a handful of soldiers. It’s no wonder I ended up with a golden weapon!… Those were interesting, happy times! Youth, boundless energy, a whirlwind of hopes!… Once I had an extremely risky “encounter.” I nearly paid for it with my life. The battle had died down… We had won… The bodies of slain horsemen lay scattered far across the steppe. One of them had been thrown from his horse in a particularly beautiful and dramatic way. The steppe warrior lay frozen in that pose. I dismounted, opened my sketchbook, and began to sketch the horseman. I was just finishing up… Suddenly, a shot rang out behind me. I turned around—and there, just two steps away, a wounded horseman was writhing on the ground. His cooling hand clutched a dagger… A terrified Cossack with a smoking rifle was running toward me at full speed. So what happened? While I was drawing, the wounded horseman came to, crawled toward me, and was already raising his dagger to plunge it deep into my back… The Cossack spotted this from a distance and, with a well-aimed shot, killed him on the spot.
“Wasn’t that a risky session?”
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