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Alumnus reflects on first impressions that belied scholar's warm demeanorMany of us old English majors who attended UCLA in the mid-to-late 1940s remember Professor Majl Ewing with a mixture of impressions: fear (he could be a terror in the lecture room), negativity, indifference, or even warmth, as in my case. Professor Majl Ewing, sometimes chairman (or today, chairperson), commanded a large degree of respect.

On any given spring day, you might catch sight of him strolling across campus wearing a Panama hat curled sidewise at the brim with a boutonniere at the lapel of his custom-tailored gabardine suit, and a neatly folded handkerchief peeking from his top jacket pocket. And always the perennial bow tie, as much a part of the formal attire of the pre- and post-war professoriate as the more "proletarian" garb of a later blue-jeaned generation of academics. After a student conference with this Rhodes scholar one always carried away an overwhelming impression of courtesy and courtliness. The kindness would come later, as we shall see.

In the spring of 1949, I enrolled in Ewing's two-semester course in the history and development of English prose (or some such approximation in the catalog listing). Like so many of my fellow undergraduates, most of us World War II vets attending UCLA on the GI Bill, my first impression of the man was of a pedagogic tyrant who tolerated no disruptive behavior in the classroom no matter how slight or trivial, and to some extent that presumption was borne out.

Of course, in those days "disruptive behavior" might include talking while a lecture was in progress, passing notes, or if one were of a dreamy bent, merely staring out the window ­ all of which might be seen as an act of disrespect. Any of these "heinous" offenses would be met with a sudden halt in the lecture, a fixed stare at the offender, or something even more demonstrative, like a stern dressing-down.But as time wore on, I found there was much more to this man than first impressions produced.

One bright spring morning, when sunlight filtered through the windows of a Royce Hall classroom, Ewing strode into the room, textbook under arm, with a broad smile on his face. Perhaps it was the cheery aspect of a room bathed in the morning's sunlight that had set off such out-of-character cheer in him. Perhaps. But when he reached the lectern and opened his textbook to a passage from a John Donne sermon, we'd soon learn there was a degree of puckish black humor behind the cheer.

When with obvious relish he looked out over that classroom of expectant faces and exclaimed, "What a beautiful morning for us to discuss Donne's view of death and the corruption of the flesh after death!" we knew why ­ in that moment the class erupted into laughter. But also in that moment a certain relaxation from the usual "iron" discipline filled the room.

Ewing reminded me ever so much as a kind of composite of two great 20th century figures whose generation he shared; the novelist W. Somerset Maugham and the actor Sir Ralph Richardson. My own personal experience with the man has left an indelibly warm impression on me, over 40 years later.

In the spring of 1950, just as I was due to graduate, as luck would have it, I was scheduled to go into the Long Beach Veterans Hospital for the treatment of a service-connected disability. But I had a problem beyond that. That semester, I was not only due to complete all course work for my bachelor's degree, I was also due to take final exams. Several of my professors were considerate enough to let me take my finals in the following semester, which partly explains my graduating in 1951, not in 1950, which was when I was scheduled to graduate.

And when Ewing heard of my problem ­ I gingerly approached him to request taking his final exam early in May, instead of June ­ he was gracious enough to permit me that dispensation. "Why, of course, Sam! Why not take your exam in my outer office ­ if, that is, your condition will permit it." My "condition" at the time was asymptomatic, and so with the guarded blessings of the university's health office physician, I was given the green light.

On my discharge from the hospital some time later, I paid Professor Ewing a visit to thank him for his sympathetic and understanding, not to say compassionate, act. We were standing outside Royce Hall at the time. He was sporting the ever-present boutonniere, a Panama hat tilted sidewise as always, and a large gemstone ring which adorned his pinkie. His response was immediate. "I am so happy to see that you are now finally on the mend, young man! If I can be of any help ..."

Some years later, in the early '60s, which were Ewing's autumnal years, he generously permitted my wife and I to sit in on one of his classes. At the time, he was explicating the poetry of William Butler Yeats. "Explicating" ­ that was the word commonly used in those days for analyzing the significance and the symbolism of Yeats' imagery in the poem "Sailing to Byzantium," with its "gyres" and "sages standing in God's holy fire."

Ten minutes into the lecture, a student, who looked like a refugee from Haight-Ashbury, sailed into the room, took a seat in the rear (where else?) and casually opened up the pages of his copy of the Daily Bruin.

I braced for some outraged reaction from the lectern as the noisy student opened his paper with a rustle of pages. But no word or gesture was forthcoming. Ewing simply continued on with his discussion of the Yeats' poem as if nothing out of the way had occurred.

How the man had changed! Was he "burned out" (an expression just beginning to gain currency), or was he simply being philosophical, perhaps realizing that since his academic career was drawing to a close, why risk a stroke? Perhaps the "new age" mentality had no relevance for a pedagogic antediluvian like him. No doubt about it ... the times, they were a changin'. But for the better? Who could tell?

At the time, I had just completed a master's degree at USC (I hope my Bruin peers, both past and present, will forgive me!). At the conclusion of the class hour, as we stood in the hallway outside the classroom chatting, I made the sheepish admission that I'd felt slightly guilty for having chosen USC as the site of my graduate work.

Ewing's response was both magnanimous and wise. "Bunk! Our loyalty should not be primarily to the school but to the profession. Bill Templeman [then English department chairman at USC] and I are great friends!" And with that, we shook hands, with Ewing heading back to his office and I to my last impressions of him.

I now wonder if the late Majl Ewing was ever quite the classroom tyrant many of us took him to be back in the days when we were scared and fumbling freshmen ­ even those of us who had endured the terrors of front-line war duty! Except for those first superficial impressions, I always thought Ewing was a warm and essentially compassionate man. My time at UCLA will always be inextricably bound up with the memory of this gentleman and scholar, who was a scholar much of the time, but always a gentle man.

Sam Bluefarb is a 1951 alumnus.

I now wonder if the late Majl Ewing was ever quite the classroom tyrant many of us took him to be back in the days when we were scared and fumbling freshmen.