Hungarian history is replete with sorry tales of misguided decisions and personal tragedies. They provide excellent material for biographers. Sadly, in Hungary, heated public discourse and government attempts to use the past as a battleground have hampered the scholarly reappraisal of historical figures. Although post-Communist historiography has made strides in the research and reevaluation of the last century, it has shied away from the political implications of reassessing several key historical personalities. Count Pál Teleki, who served two terms as Hungarian prime minister (1920–1921 and 1939–1941), is a good case in point. This gaunt politician, a “scholar implanted into an aristocrat” (94), appears to be unique even in the Magyar pantheon of contentious and tragic characters.

To be fair, the Teleki literature has grown steadily in Hungary since 1989. Nevertheless, Balázs Ablonczy's book, first published in Hungarian in 2005, is the only serious modern biography of Teleki. By contrast, the life of Count István Bethlen, who succeeded Teleki as premier in 1921, received proper scholarly treatment in 1991. The comparatively long delay in reappraising Teleki is no coincidence. Unlike Bethlen, Teleki was “open to new ideas such as the extreme right-wing authoritarian views” (94). His brand of conservatism was “anti-liberal, anti-Semitic and, in some instances, antiparliamentarian” (148). Most of the controversy, however, centers on Teleki's overtly racist views. Not only was he associated with the first anti-Semitic legislation in Europe in the wake of World War I, and with the anti-Jewish laws during World War II, but he was also “the most rigorous opponent of any mitigation in discrimination” (128) in the interwar period. Even in the politically moderate upper house, he spoke out against abolishing the numerus clausus. On his return to power in 1939, Teleki immediately advocated new anti-Semitic measures: “Let no one believe … that the implementation of such an act was a painful process … Let no one think, here in this country or abroad … that this law was prepared under German pressure or any other influence … This will be our last battle with the Jews” (175).

In view of such statements, plans to erect a Teleki statue in Budapest in 2004 triggered such fierce opposition that the municipal authorities had to abandon the project. Clearly, the memory of Teleki's racist sentiments is no less vivid today than his positive legacy as an opponent of National Socialism, and as the premier who committed suicide rather than surrender the country's armed neutrality and noncombatant status by joining the German attack on Yugoslavia.

Even in his foreign policy, which earned him praise in the West, Teleki's record appears controversial. The responsibility of his administration for tying the country's fortunes to Hitler's Germany in the hope of territorial gains remains a moot point. After all, his government joined the Tripartite Pact and left the League of Nations. The latter decision is particularly curious, given Teleki's international reputation as the former head of a successful League of Nations mission to Mosul in 1925. For all such deep-seated contradictions in Teleki's life and career, the biography under review here eschews any polemic. Ablonczy sets himself a deliberately circumscribed task at the outset: “It was my goal to present a picture of Pál Teleki that was not a hagiography, a genre commonly used in works about him, yet did not show only the darker sides of his political life, a genre which has recently gained in popularity” (viii).

Such scholarly detachment is certainly commendable. The picture that emerges is nuanced: The author is sympathetic toward Teleki without trying to defend the indefensible. Ablonczy provides a vivid portrait of the internationally renowned geographer, the scout leader, the sponsor of a new educated middle class, the Transylvanian regionalist, and the protector of Polish refugees, as well as a disciplined but frail man suffering from chronic kidney failure. On some pages of Ablonczy's book, Teleki emerges as a conceited and paternalistic aristocrat, on others, as a highly cultured and self-deprecating intellectual. But the balance sheet of flaws and merits, failures and achievements, is likely to remain unclear to the reader. The conclusion that Teleki's turbulent life was characteristic of the twentieth century does not take us very far in understanding the man and what he stood for. Although the biographer's decision to shun historical controversy should be respected, his attitude only confirms the impression that, two decades after the collapse of Communism, Hungarian historiography has yet to come to grips with Teleki's vast and burdensome legacy.