Hesar seinastu mánaðirnar havi eg verið staddur um ikki í versta vanda so í ræðuligum gjálvi. Mítt skip, sum siglir sjúkunnar hav, hevur jú sjógvin standandi høgt í hvørjum lastarúmi, tað flýtur tung liga og høggur ræðuliga. Eg hugsi mær tað, løgið at siga, liggja út fyri Góðvónar Høvda, men tað er einki symbolskt hugmynda samband; tí vón? Vón kortini! Hvussu steingrátt havið er, og hvussu døkt er í erva, má ein kortini minnast til, at ein er „føddur og uppvaksin millum teir militeru,“sum kvartermeistarin Krakk sigur í operuni „Hin knái Tinsoldáturin“. Tann tankin kann koma sníkjandi á meg í míni miklu møði, at nú kann krússið brátt sigast at vera fult. Ein kann kenna seg etsaðan inn í lívsnervina og hugsa: nunc libera me. Tá ræður um at minnast til Kraks gomlu ariu á Tórshavnar Skansa-vølli: Militerið við lavettirnar ræðist ikki bajonettirnar! Alraminst nú eigur eisini „Skansin at quitterast“. Tí Barbara vinnur framá við ikki so vánaligari ferð. Í øllum gjálvinum vinnur ein longri fram á vegin.

Soleiðsi skrivar Jørgen-Frantz Jacobsen til vinmann in William Heinesen í februar 1938 ein mánað, áðrenn hann doyði. 16 ára dystur við tuberklarnar var av. Jørgen-Frantz Jacobsen varð 37 ár.

...

These past months I have been if not in the greatest danger, then in the most terrifying tumultuous seas. My ship, which sails an ocean of sickness, has rising water in every hold. It floats heavily and cuts through the ocean ever so harshly. Strangely, I think lying here just off of Cape of Good Hope that there is no symbolic imagery – for hope? Hope nevertheless! However stone-grey the ocean and however dark the sky, one must still remember that we are “born and raised amongst militants”, as quartermaster Krak says in the opera “The Steadfast Tin Soldier”. The thought sometimes creeps into my head in all my weariness, that my cup is now full. One can feel etched into life’s nerve and think: nunc libera me. That’s when one must go back to Kraks old aria on Tórshavn’s Skansin field: The military with its canons does not fear the bayonets! In the least, Skansin should now be credited. For Barbara is gaining recognition at a fairly good speed. Life’s turbulence brings one further ahead.


This is what Jørgen-Frantz Jacobsen writes to his friend William Heinesen in February 1938, one month before he died. His sixteen-year battle with tuberculosis had come to an end. Jørgen Frantz was 37-years old.