Zhenya thought that, as i was an artist, i must know a great deal and could accurately guess what i didn't know. She wanted me to lead her into the realm of the eternal and beautiful, into that loftier world in which, she fancied, i was quite at home. And she spoke to me of God, of immortality, of the miraculous. I refused to admit that i and my imagination would parish forever after death. 'Yes, people are immortal. Yes, eternal life awaits us,' i replied. And she listened and believed - and she did not ask for proof.
(The House With the Mezzanine. Chekhov.)