His heart was dead and could not be revived.
And his mania for thinking, thinking! previsualizing an incident so vividly that actual enactment was an anticlimax--but probably would not be if his mind would leave him alone and not be always jeering at his efforts.

For a man in his state of spiritual impoverishment all, save art, was but a recreation more or less boring, a diversion more or less vain.

"Ah, poor woman, I am afraid she is going to get pretty sick of me.

If only she would consent to come no more! But no, she doesn't deserve to be treated in that fashion," and, seized by pity, he swore to himself that the next time she visited him he would caress her and try to persuade her that the disillusion which he had so ill concealed did not exist.
He tried to spread up the bed, get the tousled blankets together, and plump the pillows, then he lay down.
He put out his lamp.

In the darkness his distress increased.