The Commander promised to draw up the telegram himself, with a recommendation of his own, and to have it sent from his office. He warned me, however, to consider the matter again, to think of the hardships I should have to bear, of the soldiers’ attitude toward me, and the universal ridicule that I should provoke. But I did not change my mind. The telegram was sent at my expense, costing eight roubles, which I obtained from my mother. When I disclosed to my family the nature of my visit to the Commander of the Twenty-fifth Battalion they burst into tears. My poor mother cried that her Mania must have gone out of her senses, that it was an unheard-of, impossible thing. Who ever heard of a _baba_ going to war? She would allow herself to be buried alive before letting me enlist. My father supported her. I was their only hope now, they said. They would be forced to starve and go begging, without my help. And the house was filled with sobs and lamentation, the two younger sisters and some neighbours joining in. My heart was rent in twain. It was a cruel, painful choice that I was called upon to make, a choice between my mother and my country. It had cost me so much to steel myself to that new life, and now, when I was seemingly near the goal, my long-suffering mother called upon me to give up this ideal that possessed me, for her sake. I was tormented and agonized by doubt. I realized that I must make a decision quickly, and, with a supreme effort and the help of God, I resolved that the call of my country came before the call of my mother. After some time had passed a soldier came to the house. “Is Maria Botchkareva here?” he questioned. He came from headquarters with the news that a telegram had arrived from the Tsar, authorizing the Commander to enlist me as a soldier, and that the Commander wanted to see me. My mother did not expect such an answer. She grew frantic. She cursed the Tsar with all her might, although she had always revered him as the Little Father. “What kind of a Tsar is he?” she cried, “if he takes women to war? He must have lost his senses. Who ever heard of a Tsar calling women to arms? Hasn’t he enough men? Goodness knows, there are myriads of them in Mother Russia.” She seized the Tsar’s portrait on the wall, before which she had crossed herself every morning, and tore it to bits, stamping them on the floor, with imprecations and anathema on her lips. Never again would she pray for him, she declared. “No, never!”