The Pandosto of the novel has, properly speaking, no character at all:  he is but a human figure going through a set of motions; that is, the person and the action are put together arbitrarily, and not under any law of vital correspondence.  Almost any other figure would fit the motions just as well.  It is true, Shakespeare had a course of action marked out for him in the tale.  But then he was bound by his own principles of art to make the character such as would rationally support the action, and cohere with it.  For such is the necessary law of moral development and transpiration.  Nor is it by any means safe to affirm that, he has not done this.  For it is to be noted that Polixenes has made a pretty long visit, having passed, it seems, no less than nine changes of the Moon at the home of his royal friend.  And he might well have found it not always easy to avoid preferring the Queen’s society to the King’s; for she is a most irresistible creature, and her calm, ingenuous modesty, itself the most dignified of all womanly graces, is what, more than any thing else, makes her so.  What secret thoughts may have been gathering to a head in the mind of Leontes during that period, is left for us to divine from the after-results.  And I believe there is a jealousy of friendship, as well as of love.  Accordingly, though Leontes invokes the Queen’s influence to induce a lengthening of the visit, yet he seems a little disturbed on seeing that her influence has proved stronger than his own.

    “Leon.  Is he won yet?

    Herm.  He’ll stay, my lord.

    Leon.  At my request he would not. 
    Hermione, my dear’st, thou never spok’st
    To better purpose.

    Herm.  Never?

    Leon.  Never, but once.

    Herm.  What! have I twice said well? when was’t before? 
    I pr’ythee tell me.

Leon.  Why, that was when Three crabbed months had sour’d themselves to death, Ere I could make thee open thy white hand, And clap thyself my love:  then didst thou utter, I’m yours forever.”

There is, I think, a relish of suppressed bitterness in this last speech, as if her long reluctance had planted in him a germ of doubt whether, after all, her heart was really in her words of consent.  For the Queen is a much deeper character than her husband.  It is true, these notices, and various others, drop along so quiet and unpronounced, as hardly to arrest the reader’s attention.  Shakespeare, above all other men, delights in just such subtile insinuations of purpose; they belong indeed to his usual method of preparing for a given issue, yet doing it so slyly as not to preclude surprise when the issue comes.