s the end of 1830 he began to write for the _Revue de Paris_, a
journal with which his relations, generally inharmonious, culminated
in the celebrated lawsuit of 1836. The review was at this time the
property of a company; and the sole object of the shareholders being
to obtain large dividends, they adopted the short-sighted policy of
cutting down their payment to authors, a course which led to continual
recriminations, and naturally made the office of chief editor very
difficult. When Balzac first wrote for the review, Charles Rabou held
this post, following Dr. Veron; but he resigned in a few months, and
was succeeded in his turn by Amedee Pichot. With him Balzac waged
continual war, finally dealing a heavy blow to the review by deserting
it altogether in 1833.

The cause of the dispute, in the first instance, was one which often
reappears in the history of Balzac's relations with different editors.
Being happily possessed of devoted friends, who allowed him complete
freedom while he stayed with them, he found it easier to write in the
quiet of the country than amidst the worries and distractions of
Paris. In 1830, after travelling in Brittany, he spent four months,
from July to November, at La Grenadiere, that pretty little house near
to Saint-Cyr-sur-Loire, which he coveted continually, but never
succeeded in acquiring. In 1834 he thought the arrangements for its
purchase were at last settled. After three years of continual
refusals, the owners had consented to sell, and he already imagined
himself surrounded with books, and established for six months at a
time at this studious retreat. However, pecuniary difficulties came as
usual in the way, and except as a visitor, Balzac never tasted the
joys of a country life.

From La Grenadiere he wrote a remarkable letter to Ratier,[*] full of
love for the beauty of nature, a feeling which filled him with a sense
of the littleness of man, and expressing also that uncomfortable doubt
which must occasionally assail the mind of any man possessed of
powerful physique as well as imagination--the doubt whether the
existence of the thinker is not after all a poor thing compared with
that of the active worker, who is tossed about, risks his life, and
himself creates a living drama. He finishes with the words: "And it
seems to me that the sea, a man-of-war, and an English boat to
destroy, with a chance of drowning, are better than an inkpot, and a
pen, and the Rue Saint-Denis."