“What Sir Harry Told Me…”
Evening Times – Dec. 22, 1962
By: Danny Kaye as told to Kurt Singer
I still don’t know exactly how it happened that a skinny kid named David Daniel Kominsky from a polygot section of Brooklyn became known and liked throughout a sizable portion of the world. Or what good fortune gave me such a wonderful family and friends.
I never will know all the answers, but I have learned one important thing about life and work. Just in the nick of time too, because my daughter Dena is growing up quickly and is beginning to ask her daddy a lot of questions.
When she asks me what will help a person most in his or her search for success and happiness I’ll say—“Dena, my darling, you must love what you do.”
When I was growing up in Brooklyn I loved being the boy in the neighbourhood who sang and cut up. Later, when I became a professional entertainer and times were hard, my love for my work made hunger easier to bear.
In Glasgow several years ago I met the late Sir Harry Lauder, who became my friend and honoured me by calling me “son.” He gave me many secrets learned during his long and useful life.
ONE WAS HIS PERSONAL RECIPE FOR HAPPINESS. “BE CONTENT WITH YOURSELF,” HE SAID. “DON’T TRY TO BE SOMEBODY ELSE.”
When Mr. Goldwyn offered me the role of Hans Christian Andersen I accepted it immediately, partly because I wanted to stop clowning for at least one picture and partly because I felt that I knew the mind of the simple cobbler of Denmark.
Hans Christian Andersen was a humble man who created a world of enchantment for himself and others. Neither jail nor a broken heart was able to destroy his world.
He loved his real work of making children happy with his stories.
On the stage I have always loved to blurt out whatever came into my mind. For many years, however, friends argued me into sticking to the script. One night in London I broke that rule.
The response of a wonderfully warm and enthusiastic audience had inspired me to do a dance that drained the last ounce of my strength. But as weary and winded as I was I didn’t want to leave the stage. If an audience likes me, and I like them, there is a genuine bond that holds us together. Suddenly I felt that I had to tell those people how good they made me feel.
So I sat down among the footlights, dangled my legs in the orchestra pit, and asked a gentleman in the front row for a cigarette.
Then I talked about the little affairs of my life and my business—not for laughs but as any man would talk to a close, interested friend. When I had rested I went back to work again feeling much better for the talk. The applause of the audience said they felt better too.
Since then, whenever I have a long show, as I did daily at the Palace Theatre, New York, I never miss an opportunity for such a chat.
It’s a chance to let an audience know how much I love doing what I do!
All my life I have loved nothing else so much as standing before an audience and feeling as one with them while we enjoyed each other. Sometimes I forget that people have to go home, and then I apologise and explain—“There is nobody, but nobody, who enjoys listening to me entertain as much as I do.”
Dena, accustomed to a father who acts much as other men around the house, takes a rather dim view of my actions as an entertainer. I discovered this recently when Mrs. Kaye and I decided she ought to see some of my shows.
She stared, wide-
If only she knew how much her daddy loves that laughter!
I KNOW THERE’S NO SURE-