I had neglected a duty. Not only once did I do this, but again and
again, the fire went out or the bread ran over in the pans, while I
painted and dreamed.

My conscience began to trouble me. Housekeeping was "woman's sphere,"
although I had never then heard the words, for no woman had gotten out
of it, to be hounded back; but I knew my place, and scorned to leave it.
I tried to think I could paint without neglect of duty. It did not occur
to me that painting was a duty for a married woman! Had the passion
seized me before marriage, no other love could have come between me and
art; but I felt that it was too late, as my life was already devoted to
another object--housekeeping.

It was a hard struggle. I tried to compromise, but experience soon
deprived me of that hope, for to paint was to be oblivious of all other
things. In my doubt, I met one of those newspaper paragraphs with which
men are wont to pelt women into subjection: "A man does not marry an
artist, but a housekeeper." This fitted my case, and my doom was sealed.

I put away my brushes; resolutely crucified my divine gift, and while it
hung writhing on the cross, spent my best years and powers cooking
cabbage. "A servant of servants shall she be," must have been spoken of
women, not negroes.

Friends have tried to comfort me by the assurance that my life-work has
been better done by the pen, than it could have been with the pencil,
but this cannot be. I have never cared for literary fame; have avoided,
rather than sought it; have enjoyed the abuse of the press more than its
praise; have held my pen with a feeling of contempt for its feebleness,
and never could be so occupied with it as to forget a domestic duty,