Let's continue, In chapter forty-six (“XLIVL” in some
editions) the increasingly chaotic plot begins
to clear up. It opens with the priest’s
observation that, according to the law, since
DQ is crazy, if the officers arrest him, they’ll
still have to set him free. The lead officer’s
response reveals the bureaucratic and clinical
attitude that characterizes the modern state
and the insane asylum: “the officer with
the arrest warrant replied that it was not
for him to judge Don Quijote’s madness but,
rather, to do as his superior ordered” (cf.
Hannah Arendt and Michel Foucault). Nevertheless,
the officers are eventually convinced that
DQ is not worth arresting, and simultaneously
they get involved in the matters of Mambrino’s
helmet and the saddle. In fact, the officers
transform from representatives of the law
into “arbitrators” or “referees” in
search of some social accord: “they thought
it best to retreat and even became go-betweens
attempting to bring peace to the barber and
Sancho Panza.”
Cervantes emphasizes the details of this process:
“Finally, they, as arms of justice, mediated
the case and were its arbitrators, such that
both sides were, if not entirely happy, at
least somewhat satisfied, because the saddles
were exchanged, although not the straps and
the halters.” Consider well how all this
confusion is brought to a close: in the final
analysis, peace arrives thanks to the detailed
repayment agreement made between the priest
and the second barber: “for the basin he
gave him eight reales, and the barber gave
him a certificate of receipt.” And at this
point, the narrator gives us a liturgical
formula that emphasizes that the quarrels
have ceased “forever and ever... Amen.”
Parallel to this, let’s say legalistic,
peace, the amorous case of Don Luis and Doña
Clara is also resolved. Here Cervantes uses
Petrarchan and Platonic rhetoric to indicate
a certain cosmic harmony established among
all the inn’s lovers: Clara’s face reveals
“the joy of her soul” and, at the same
time, Zoraida rejoices at the satisfied face
“of her Spaniard, on whom she always fixed
her gaze and hung her very soul.” The phrase
refers to Garcilaso’s “First Eclogue.”
Even the last remaining problem is resolved,
the most mundane of all, the matter of paying
the innkeeper, who “well aware of the gift
and compensation the priest had made to the
barber, requested the balance incurred by
Don Quijote along with the damages done to
his wineskins and the loss of his wine, swearing
that neither Rocinante nor Sancho’s ass
would leave the inn until he was first paid
the very last farthing owed to him.” The
priest calms the innkeeper, Don Fernando pays
him, and thus “the discord of the encampment
of Agramante” is replaced by “the very
peace and tranquility of the age of Octavian.”
The comparison alludes to the Spanish Empire,
often justified by its imposition of peace
at the end of the Reconquista. According to
the narrator, harmony reigns “thanks to
the good intentions and abundant eloquence
of the priest and the unparalleled generosity
of Don Fernando,” but don’t forget that
this was a matter of making monetary compensations
to the second barber and the innkeeper.
Notice another detail: thanks to the innkeeper’s
complaint, SP’s ass finally reappears in
the novel’s first edition. In fact, if we
have been reading carefully, we notice that
this has been a gradual process. In chapter
forty-two, SP slept on his ass’s gear and
Maritornes used its halter to tie DQ’s wrist.
The second barber then recognized his gear
in chapter forty-four, which led to the long
and violent debate over the saddle in chapter
forty-five. Literary critics have made much
of the philosophical subtleties of the “bashelmet”
and the collective delusion regarding the
saddle, but it’s also important to note
how SP’s ass returns in these same passages,
first creeping in via the details of its gear
and finally reappearing completely in the
innkeeper’s comment.
You will call me crazy. Well, great, and thank
you. “Come on, Eric,” you might say, “what’s
the point of SP’s intermittent ass?” I
would argue that the earlier disappearance
of SP’s ass is a warning about the immorality
of his dream of becoming a slaver. If the
incomparable generosity of Don Fernando brings
peace to the inn, and metaphorically to the
Spanish Empire, at the same time, SP’s lost
gray reappears and the problematic Micomicón
fantasy resumes. However, a great change,
or metamorphosis, has occurred with respect
to this fantasy. This time, SP is not fooled
so easily. The chivalric narrative that everyone
wants to build around Princess Micomicona
conflicts with SP’s empirical skepticism,
and over the remainder of the novel our squire
wrestles with the shadows of his doubts. DQ
gives orders to his squire: “saddle, Sancho,
Rocinante and rig thine ass and the queen’s
palfrey.” But Sancho responds with idiomatic
expressions that indicate his disillusionment:
“Oh, master, master, and how much more mischief
there is in the village than one hears about,
begging the pardon of all those honorably
present!” DQ’s first reaction expresses
his global uncertainty: “What mischief can
there be in any town, or in all cities of
the world, which could tarnish my reputation,
you boob?” At the text’s most prosaic
level, what has happened is that SP has seen
Dorotea kissing Don Fernando: “this lady
who claims to be Queen of the great Kingdom
of Micomicón is no more so than my mother.”
And for a moment Dorotea is catatonic: “At
Sancho’s insight, Dorotea turned red.”
