It would seem logical to consider correspondence as the complement of conversation—as talk between persons at a distance. But it was not so; talk it might be, but in writing, and consequently no one was very fond of it; people distrusted it because of the risks involved. Yet certain intellectual women of the 16th century displayed amazing activity as letter-writers. While one might have supposed them to be wholly engrossed with their rouge-pots or their friends, their intelligence and vivacity actually carried them away; the pen appeared too lumbering a vehicle for their impatient thought. In the letters of Julia Gonzaga, for instance, it is often evident that the lady took the pen from her secretary at the third or fourth line and finished the letter herself, rapidly, and without troubling her head about grammar, handwriting, or decorum.[276] To the student of handwriting, letters betray many little philosophic secrets which are well worth attention. The handwritings of the 16th century (for the most part illegible, particularly in France) are large and free, highly nervous and characteristic of the writers, released from the methodical and commonplace style of former days. The strokes are fine and distinguished, sometimes a little angular, displaying all sorts of vagaries, abbreviations and flourishes. What a “mirror of the soul” is the close and tangled handwriting of Margaret of France, or the gaunt, nervous, firm, aristocratic, jerky, disorderly style of the duchess of Etampes![277] The style of Vittoria Colonna is clear and plain, somewhat masculine in character, but equally nervous and irregular, with a multitude of abbreviations and splotches. A mere glance at the letters of these influential women fills one with pity. Poor souls! At what a cost of secret torment, distress, and agitation did they mould happiness and peace for men! Looking at these human documents, these nervous handwritings, one asks oneself if those sages are right who assure us that to bestow happiness on others one must needs possess it oneself. Was it at the cost of His happiness, or at the cost of His blood, that Christ redeemed us? I may be deceived, but I sometimes fancy that I see in these handwritings as it were a drop of blood. It was otherwise with the men: they were happy. Castiglione’s writing has a graceful, tranquil movement; his pen ran lightly and cursively; and if sometimes the strokes seem laboured, it is due to an affectation in his manner of joining the letters. Bembo placidly retains the old style, stunted, heavy, and sprawling.