Hungarian scholars and travellers in the early nineteenth century often ventured into the Turkic-speaking regions of Central Asia in search of the ancestors of the Hungarian people. An exception was Bertalan Ónody (d. 1892), who held various posts in the administration of eastern Hungary. A landowner by status, he also took a keen personal interest in agriculture, and was particularly fascinated by the cultivation of melons.
The history of melons in Hungary reaches far back, with some theories suggesting that the early Hungarians were already familiar with them when they settled in the Carpathian Basin. Archaeological finds from Buda provide solid evidence that melons were grown in the Hungarian Kingdom as early as the Middle Ages. Contemporary sources further indicate that, by the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, they had become among the most popular fruits grown in the country. Their popularity continued unabated into the mid-nineteenth century, which marked an important period in the history of melon cultivation. Amateur growers with a particular enthusiasm for melons went to considerable lengths to obtain seeds of varieties not yet grown in Hungary. In 1851, for instance, the governing committee of the Hungarian Economic Association (Magyar Gazdasági Egyesület) appealed to the government for assistance in procuring melon seeds from Turkestan, which contemporary Hungarian public opinion generally regarded as the homeland of the fruit. Although this effort proved unsuccessful at the time, government assistance enabled them to obtain seeds from Khoy in Iran. In 1859, a melon growers’ competition was held in Pest, and according to contemporary reports, fruits described as “Turkestan” melons were already among those judged to be the finest.
The Hungarian Melon Growers’ Association (Magyar Dinnyész Egylet) was founded in 1863, with Bertalan Ónody joining it almost from the outset. That same year, he published an account of his experiments in melon cultivation in the journal Falusi Gazda (“The Village Farmer”), which reported that he had obtained seeds from Crimea and had also experimented with two other varieties referred to as ‘Astrakhan’ and ‘Turkestan’. Not long after Ónody’s article appeared, Ármin Vámbéry (d. 1913) returned to Hungary from his journey to Turkestan, bringing with him seeds of the Shakar-para variety. Ónody managed to obtain some of these and, after successfully experimenting with them, later proudly reported that he had succeeded in establishing the variety as a widely grown melon on the Hungarian Plain.
While still in Central Asia, Vámbéry was joined by a young man from the town of Qunghrat, Mulla Ishaq, who, abandoning his original plans, decided to settle in Hungary rather than continue on to Mecca as a pilgrim. Known in contemporary Hungarian sources simply as Csagatáj Izsák, Mulla Ishaq soon learned Hungarian and, within a short time, became an important source of information for Hungarians interested in the language and culture of his homeland. Ónody was among them. Although he had already read Russian-language accounts of the region before meeting Mulla Ishaq, he nevertheless came to regard him as the most authoritative source of information on the natural environment and agricultural production of Central Asia.
From his reading and conversations with Mulla Ishaq, Ónody came to believe that the climate and soil conditions of Turkestan, particularly in Khiva, closely resembled those of the Hungarian Plain. This conviction prompted him to undertake a study tour, during which he hoped to examine at first hand the cultivation of field crops, cereals and fruits in Central Asia—the methods employed, the conditions under which they were grown, and, ultimately, which of them might be successfully cultivated in Hungary. In choosing his destination within Central Asia, Ónody was undoubtedly influenced by his relationship with Mulla Ishaq, who hailed from the region. Yet this was by no means the only consideration informing his choice: he was also attracted by the prospect of exploring a part of the world that remained largely unknown to European scholars. Ónody himself explains his reasons in the following words in his short travelogue published in two parts in the journal Földrajzi Közlemények in 1876:
“Khiva in general, and more particularly the Khivan khanate, abounds more than any other region of Central Asia in varieties and sub-varieties of crops identical or closely related to those cultivated in Hungary, capable of being acclimatised here, and thus especially suitable to our conditions; indeed, in this respect it surpasses them all. Moreover, the main route between Kazalinsk, Tashkent, and Samarkand, being the only major line of communication in the Russian-governed part of Turkestan along which military troops are regularly transported and through which a steady stream of Russian scholars travel, has by now been so extensively traversed and documented that, from a geographical and natural-historical point of view, it offers little that is new to record or describe. Khiva itself, by contrast, as well as the Khanate of Khiva and the various routes leading to it, is known only to a limited extent. My own route, one might say, is scarcely known at all. It therefore seemed to me far more interesting than any other place or route in Central Asia, as it promised a wealth of new and interesting material worthy of observation and record; indeed, I may say that it was of unique interest to me.”
Ónody took his preparations for the journey seriously. In order to obtain first-hand information during his travels, he took language lessons from Vámbéry and even enrolled at the university as a private student, so that he could further improve his knowledge of the Central Asian Turki.
The acquisition of linguistic proficiency, however, was motivated by considerations beyond merely facilitating the gathering of information. The acquisition of linguistic proficiency, however, was motivated by considerations beyond merely facilitating the gathering of information. Ónody’s caution provides a telling illustration of the attitude of the local population in the years following the Russian conquest towards the conquerors and towards those whom they regarded as associated with them. He himself explains this as follows:
“One may safely say that, among the natives of Central Asia, who have but the vaguest notion of the various European nations, and who know no European peoples other than the Russian, their mortal enemy, and the Turk, their brother, travelling is exceedingly difficult for the solitary traveller. They regard anyone who does not speak their language as a Russian, that is, as a political and religious enemy, and consequently not only refuse all contact with such a person, but may even treat him as an enemy bent on taking his life. For this reason, travel is exceedingly difficult for the solitary traveller and, for the researcher and student, quite impossible.”
Having secured letters of recommendation from the government, the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, and various other learned societies and museums, Ónody set out for Central Asia on 20 June 1875. His journey took him first through Warsaw, St Petersburg, Moscow, Kazan, and Samara to Orenburg. From there, he crossed the Kazakh steppe and the Karakum Desert to Kazalinsk, where he embarked on a vessel and continued his journey by water, travelling along the Syr Darya, across the Aral Sea, and down the Amu Darya to his ultimate destination, Khiva.
Ónody reached Khiva on 26 September and, the following day, was granted an audience with the khan, Muḥammad Raḥīm II (r. 1864–1910). According to his account, he won the ruler’s sympathy by expounding the theory of the kinship between the Hungarian and Turkic peoples, an idea that was widely popular in Hungary at the time and had also been championed by Vámbéry. The khan was evidently sufficiently impressed to grant Ónody permission not only to travel through the khanate and observe its people, customs, and methods of crop production, but also to provide him with a guide well versed in local farming practices. Ónody devotes only a few pages to his observations in Khiva, yet his brief account, which closely accords with Vámbéry’s views, nevertheless reveals both his evident fascination with the Turkic peoples and his marked contempt for the Iranians. The Hungarian traveller describes the Uzbeks and Turkmens in the following terms:
“The entire population of the Khanate of Khiva consists, as the ruling people, of Uzbeks, as well as Turkmens, Sarts, and Karakalpaks. Of these, the Uzbeks and Turkmens most closely resemble the Hungarians, and still more so the Turks, in appearance, language, and customs. Indeed, they speak a language that is essentially the same as Turkish, differing from it only in dialect. The facial features of the Uzbeks, and particularly those of the Turkmens, also bear a strong resemblance to those of Hungarians, except that their complexion is darker and their beards are thinner and more pointed, growing chiefly around the lips. Like all Central Asians, they habitually keep their eyes narrowed, or half closed, because of the intense light. The Uzbeks and Turkmens, however, differ greatly from one another in both their way of life and their customs, agreeing only in being equally hospitable and in being neither deceitful nor dishonest. They differ sharply in that the Uzbek is an entirely settled inhabitant, engaged in agriculture and horticulture, a relatively civilised occupation that has already made him somewhat soft. The Turkmen, by contrast, lives mostly under tents and leads a nomadic life. His horse and weapons come first, and only then his wife and family. In general, they live by raiding or, with some exceptions, by animal husbandry; one might say that the Turkmen is born on horseback and dies on horseback. He is the implacable enemy of the Russian, and wherever he can, he still kills him and cuts off his head. Their horses are so good and swift that, in battle, the Russians have so far never succeeded in capturing a single Turkmen, even though the latter often gallop under a double load, since it is customary among this people never to leave their dead or wounded on the battlefield. The Sarts are of Persian origin and still resemble the inhabitants of Persia in every respect. Without exception, they live in towns and engage in trade. They are a highly calculating and self-interested people, and one must be very careful in dealing with them lest they deceive you. They do nothing without expecting some benefit in return; even their hospitality is practised in the hope of receiving a reward afterwards.”
As a keen-eyed observer with experience in government administration, Ónody briefly characterises the relationship between the khanate and the Russian authorities and, in concise terms, also explains why the Russian Empire chose to preserve the khanate, which was independent in little more than name:
“Russia has refrained from incorporating Khiva formally into its empire for one reason only: were it to annex the khanate, even in name, it would have to bear the full burden and expense of administering it. Under the present arrangement, these fall to the khan, while everything still proceeds according to Russia’s wishes; moreover, the khanate’s inhabitants are made to pay tribute to Russia, all without Russia having to incur any expense or effort.”
Ónody also accurately recognised that, from the perspective of the Russian Empire, Khiva was not among its principal priorities, and that, unless there were a change in the direction and course of Russian policy, the khanate would slowly but surely fall into decline and wither away.
“In this depressed situation, the Khanate of Khiva has scarcely any future. Russia, having turned its attention towards extending its empire eastwards and south-eastwards, is also directing its trade in these directions, while the small khanate to the south, lying outside the principal sphere of Russian interests, is of no further concern to it beyond ensuring that its borders remain undisturbed and that it does not assist others in disturbing them. It consequently neglects the development of trade routes in this direction and leaves almost in its former unusable condition the only reliable waterway that could serve as an outlet for Khiva’s produce: the stretch between Kazalinsk and Petro-Alexandrovsk, which could be made fully navigable at relatively little expense. Thus cut off from the commercial arteries of the Russian Empire and isolated in itself, Khiva is visibly declining from day to day, both in its agriculture and in the volume of its trade. A better future can come to the Khivans only through a change in Russia’s policy towards Asia. Yet such a change is scarcely conceivable, and thus the future of the poor Khivans can hardly be painted in rosy colours.”
During his short stay in the region, the Hungarian landowner made the most of his time, and when he finally set out for home, he was accompanied by a substantial consignment of seeds from numerous agricultural crops and fruits, including every variety of melon and watermelon cultivated in Khiva. The entire load was carried by four camels and two horses. During his journey, Ónody also acquired a number of manuscripts, interestingly, none of them in Turkish. The small collection he presented to the Hungarian Academy of Sciences after his return comprised seven Persian and one Arabic manuscript. The most interesting, and undoubtedly the most valuable, among them was an illustrated possibly Central Asian Shahnama manuscript dating from the early sixteenth century.
The journey yielded more than tangible results. Ónody’s observations on agriculture found their way into two publications. A brief account of the agricultural crops cultivated in Khiva appeared in a specialist journal in 1877, while a more detailed study of melon cultivation in the region was published in the same year as a short standalone volume. Yet the latter transcends the bounds of a conventional agricultural report: alongside his discussion of melon varieties and cultivation methods, Ónody offers a vivid account of the wider natural environment, the landscape, and the people who inhabited it.
According to one of his biographers, Ónody’s writings served not only scholarly but also commercial purposes. His grand experiment, however, ended in complete failure despite all his efforts: he was ultimately unable to turn the seeds he had collected in Khiva and brought back to Hungary into a profitable commercial enterprise.