It’s worth noting that so much of this story is about everyone other than Onegin. Even on the morning of the duel he sleeps in, gets ready in a hurry, and then on the first shot kills his rival. He then disappears into the winter.
I love the ode to old age, though bemoaning turning 30 from my POV is laughable, but still. The image of the two trees with roots entwined is beautiful as is the peasant with bast shoes.