Ivanitch.  Oh!  You’re a genius, a genius!

SVIETLOVIDOFF.  And again this: 

     “Away! the moor is dark beneath the moon,
     Rapid clouds have drunk the last pale beam of even: 
     Away! the gathering winds will call the darkness soon,
     And profoundest midnight shroud the serene lights of heaven.”

They go out together, the curtain falls slowly.