Then I was apt to make mistakes by involving myself in the affairs of people whose ideas always held such a fascination for me that I would joyfully try to imagine myself in their shoes. Perhaps, too, it is part of a writer’s makeup to collect facts, to analyse human nature and, by trying to enter the minds of others, to understand the significance of a strange association of apparently contradictory ideas. But once one does that, impartiality becomes a necessity, because only thus can one decide with clarity whence, and under what influences, could this apparently strange and illogical action have stemmed. Only with impartial analysis will the motives become clear, even when they seem to contradict each other, and then one can see what – after an agony of suppressed internal battles and hesitations – has given birth to a decision that at first had seemed beyond all reason. Such apparently illogical actions are almost never inspired by a single motive. They spring from an unknown number of threads, perhaps thousands of them, some forgotten, some unconscious, some consciously suppressed or not admitted, which when collected and spun together have formed a conclusion, however considered or unconsidered it may ultimately seem. It is like the myriad tiny wells and springs, underground streams and insignificant little rivulets of water emerging from far and wide, seeping out from swamps or caverns of rock-crystal, surging forth from the dark underground or oozing through rotting vegetation until, bursting from a cleft in the rocks, they all unite and merge imperceptibly together then, tumbling down to the valley, they achieve their ultimate purpose and are transformed into a mighty river.

Among those who played a part in those uncertain days, I was closely related only to one: Mihály Károlyi. Destiny had somehow placed him right at the centre of affairs. I think I knew him better than anyone else, for not only was he a near relation but, what is more important, we had also been close personal friends since early childhood. I was seven and he was six when we first met, and there sprung up between us an almost brotherly affection that lasted and bound us together well through our stormy teenage years. Indeed it was to last long afterwards – even when our careers and adult lives kept us more and more apart, and our characters were becoming evermore different. Finally our very different points of view and understanding of what was important in life were to bring about a complete rupture between us. Nevertheless, we remained on the intimate terms born of our childhood together, even at a distance and although we rarely saw each other after his marriage and during the war. Brothers, even if they have very different characters, can be like this; the bond remains even if fate has sent them on widely separate paths. The old intimacy is never entirely lost.

From his earliest childhood there were the most varied opinions about Mihály Károlyi’s character and abilities. Even today in 1932 people still hold wildly differing views, some believing him to have only a most limited understanding and modest talents and to be little more than a power-hungry adventurer; others – although nowadays these are growing fewer and fewer – see in him some kind of noble prophet. To my view both these opinions are wrong, and so I will try to describe him as I personally see him, not as a politician but as a man. And to do so I will have to show not only what he became but also go back to where he started, so as to establish, if I can, whence came those early impressions that were to motivate his actions over two decades, actions which were ultimately so fatal as to land him where he is today14.

A man’s character is only formed after the impressions of childhood and early youth have become blended with the indefinable and hidden influences both atavistic and of more immediate heredity. When, like soft clay, the newborn human spirit has been first fashioned by the firm hand of the modeller and then allowed to set and harden, this is the moment the final character emerges, fixed for life. While the part played by heredity will always remain elusive and uncertain, the influences of a man’s early years are not difficult to unfurl if we know where to seek and consider seriously what we find. I must therefore go back many years to start this search, and I fear it may prove a lengthy process.

Károlyi was a child of first cousins, and it is possibly this which resulted in his being born with a harelip and cleft palate, and so weak and puny that no one thought he would survive for long. His mother was already suffering from tuberculosis when he was born and was to die scarcely three years later.

The two orphans she left were cared for by their grandmother, who was also my aunt. She surrounded the child with constant care and careful nursing. He had to be shielded from everything, for everything harmed him. He was like a hothouse plant, so weak and pale that it had to be sheltered even from the slightest breath. Until he was fourteen years old one could hardly understand what he said; but then old Professor Bilroth from Vienna was induced to try a hazardous operation on his palate, which at least made it easier for him to enunciate his words more clearly. He then had to learn how to speak properly and, showing much willpower, he achieved this by endless exercises, daily repeating words and phrases ever more loudly until his speech was so improved that it became almost, although never quite, that of those born with a normal palate. This built-in physical handicap was to remain with him for life: never admitted, sometimes, perhaps, temporarily out of mind, but nevertheless always there, like some congenital stigma.

Thus we can find already present from birth some of the most important formative elements in building the young Mihály’s character. One of these was the physical handicap that which was to inspire Mihály’s lifelong battle to prove himself as good as anyone else – the spirit of ‘I’ll show you!’ – a battle of willpower that had always to be waged in silence. It is terrible to think what it must mean, in the life of a small boy, to have to fight every day of one’s life to overcome a genetic handicap.