Virginia Woolf (1919) — one flower-bed, one snail, four couples passing on a hot July afternoon, and almost nothing happens.
Need an easier version? Read this story at A2/B1 level →
Before we read, let's unlock the words you'll need. Think first — the Reveal only confirms.
Read each sentence aloud and say what the bold word means from the rest of the sentence. Then reveal.
Say the word that fits, then reveal.
You know one form of the word. Say the form the sentence needs, then reveal.
Woolf's own text, lightly shortened. Read slowly — the story moves at the speed of a snail, on purpose. After each part, try the quick check from memory, then talk about the question.
From the oval-shaped flower-bed there rose perhaps a hundred stalks spreading into heart-shaped or tongue-shaped leaves half way up and unfurling at the tip red or blue or yellow petals marked with spots of colour raised upon the surface; and from the red, blue or yellow gloom of the throat emerged a straight bar, rough with gold dust and slightly clubbed at the end. The petals were voluminous enough to be stirred by the summer breeze, and when they moved, the red, blue and yellow lights passed one over the other, staining an inch of the brown earth beneath with a spot of the most intricate colour. Then the breeze stirred rather more briskly overhead and the colour was flashed into the air above, into the eyes of the men and women who walk in Kew Gardens in July.
The figures of these men and women straggled past the flower-bed with a curiously irregular movement not unlike that of the white and blue butterflies who crossed the turf in zig-zag flights from bed to bed. The man was about six inches in front of the woman, strolling carelessly, while she bore on with greater purpose, only turning her head now and then to see that the children were not too far behind. The man kept this distance in front of the woman purposely, though perhaps unconsciously, for he wished to go on with his thoughts.
"Fifteen years ago I came here with Lily," he thought. "We sat somewhere over there by a lake and I begged her to marry me all through the hot afternoon. How the dragonfly kept circling round us: how clearly I see the dragonfly and her shoe with the square silver buckle at the toe. All the time I spoke I saw her shoe and when it moved impatiently I knew without looking up what she was going to say: the whole of her seemed to be in her shoe. And my love, my desire, were in the dragonfly; for some reason I thought that if it settled there, on that leaf, the broad one with the red flower in the middle of it, if the dragonfly settled on the leaf she would say "Yes" at once. But the dragonfly went round and round: it never settled anywhere—of course not, happily not, or I shouldn't be walking here with Eleanor and the children—Tell me, Eleanor. D'you ever think of the past?"
"Why do you ask, Simon?"
"Because I've been thinking of the past. I've been thinking of Lily, the woman I might have married.... Well, why are you silent? Do you mind my thinking of the past?"
"Why should I mind, Simon? Doesn't one always think of the past, in a garden with men and women lying under the trees? Aren't they one's past, all that remains of it, those men and women, those ghosts lying under the trees, ... one's happiness, one's reality?"
"For me, a square silver shoe buckle and a dragonfly—"
"For me, a kiss. Imagine six little girls sitting before their easels twenty years ago, down by the side of a lake, painting the water-lilies, the first red water-lilies I'd ever seen. And suddenly a kiss, there on the back of my neck. And my hand shook all the afternoon so that I couldn't paint. I took out my watch and marked the hour when I would allow myself to think of the kiss for five minutes only—it was so precious—the kiss of an old grey-haired woman with a wart on her nose, the mother of all my kisses all my life. Come, Caroline, come, Hubert."
They walked on past the flower-bed, now walking four abreast, and soon diminished in size among the trees and looked half transparent as the sunlight and shade swam over their backs in large trembling irregular patches.
1. What is Simon remembering as he walks ahead of his wife, and what did the dragonfly have to do with it?
2. What is Eleanor's memory — and why is it 'the mother of all my kisses'?
1. Fifteen years ago he proposed to a woman called Lily by the lake, staring at her shoe with its silver buckle; he decided that if the dragonfly settled on a particular leaf she would say yes. It never settled — 'happily not', or he wouldn't be here with Eleanor and the children.
2. Twenty years ago, painting water-lilies by a lake, an old grey-haired woman with a wart on her nose kissed the back of her neck; her hand shook all afternoon. It was the first kiss that mattered — the one every later kiss descends from.
In the oval flower bed the snail, whose shell had been stained red, blue, and yellow for the space of two minutes or so, now appeared to be moving very slightly in its shell, and next began to labour over the crumbs of loose earth which broke away and rolled down as it passed over them. It appeared to have a definite goal in front of it, differing in this respect from the singular high stepping angular green insect who attempted to cross in front of it, and waited for a second with its antennæ trembling as if in deliberation, and then stepped off as rapidly and strangely in the opposite direction. Before he had decided whether to circumvent the arched tent of a dead leaf or to breast it there came past the bed the feet of other human beings.
This time they were both men. The younger of the two wore an expression of perhaps unnatural calm; he raised his eyes and fixed them very steadily in front of him while his companion spoke, and directly his companion had done speaking he looked on the ground again and sometimes opened his lips only after a long pause and sometimes did not open them at all. The elder man had a curiously uneven and shaky method of walking, jerking his hand forward and throwing up his head abruptly, rather in the manner of an impatient carriage horse tired of waiting outside a house; but in the man these gestures were irresolute and pointless. He talked almost incessantly; he smiled to himself and again began to talk, as if the smile had been an answer. He was talking about spirits—the spirits of the dead, who, according to him, were even now telling him all sorts of odd things about their experiences in Heaven.
"Heaven was known to the ancients as Thessaly, William, and now, with this war, the spirit matter is rolling between the hills like thunder." He paused, seemed to listen, smiled, jerked his head and continued:—
"
Here he seemed to have caught sight of a woman's dress in the distance, which in the shade looked a purple black. He took off his hat, placed his hand upon his heart, and hurried towards her muttering and gesticulating feverishly. But William caught him by the sleeve and touched a flower with the tip of his walking-stick in order to divert the old man's attention. After looking at it for a moment in some confusion the old man bent his ear to it and seemed to answer a voice speaking from it, for he began talking about the forests of Uruguay which he had visited hundreds of years ago in company with the most beautiful young woman in Europe. He could be heard murmuring about forests of Uruguay blanketed with the wax petals of tropical roses, nightingales, sea beaches, mermaids, and women drowned at sea, as he suffered himself to be moved on by William, upon whose face the look of stoical patience grew slowly deeper and deeper.
Following his steps so closely as to be slightly puzzled by his gestures came two elderly women of the lower middle class, one stout and ponderous, the other rosy cheeked and nimble. Like most people of their station they were frankly fascinated by any signs of eccentricity betokening a disordered brain, especially in the well-to-do; but they were too far off to be certain whether the gestures were merely eccentric or genuinely mad. After they had scrutinised the old man's back in silence for a moment and given each other a queer, sly look, they went on energetically piecing together their very complicated dialogue:
"Nell, Bert, Lot, Cess, Phil, Pa, he says, I says, she says, I says, I says, I says——"
"My Bert, Sis, Bill, Grandad, the old man, sugar,
Sugar, flour, kippers, greens, Sugar, sugar, sugar."
The ponderous woman looked through the pattern of falling words at the flowers standing cool, firm, and upright in the earth, with a curious expression. So the heavy woman came to a standstill opposite the oval-shaped flower bed, and ceased even to pretend to listen to what the other woman was saying. She stood there letting the words fall over her, swaying the top part of her body slowly backwards and forwards, looking at the flowers. Then she suggested that they should find a seat and have their tea.
1. What is the old man talking about, and what does William do when he hurries towards a woman in black?
2. What are the two elderly women doing, and what happens to the 'ponderous' one at the flower-bed?
1. The spirits of the dead, who are telling him about Heaven; 'with this war' the spirit matter is 'rolling between the hills like thunder'. William catches his sleeve and touches a flower with his stick to distract him — and the old man bends his ear to it and starts talking about the forests of Uruguay.
2. Scrutinising the old man's back to decide whether he is eccentric or mad, then piecing together a chaotic conversation of names ('Nell, Bert, Lot, Cess…'). The heavy one stops, stops pretending to listen, sways slightly, and simply looks at the flowers.
The snail had now considered every possible method of reaching his goal without going round the dead leaf or climbing over it. He had just inserted his head in the opening and was taking stock of the high brown roof and was getting used to the cool brown light when two other people came past outside on the turf. This time they were both young, a young man and a young woman.
"Lucky it isn't Friday," he observed.
"Why? D'you believe in luck?"
"They make you pay sixpence on Friday."
"What's sixpence anyway? Isn't it worth sixpence?"
"What's 'it'—what do you mean by 'it'?"
"O, anything—I mean—you know what I mean."
Long pauses came between each of these remarks; they were uttered in toneless and monotonous voices. The couple stood still on the edge of the flower bed, and together pressed the end of her parasol deep down into the soft earth. The action and the fact that his hand rested on the top of hers expressed their feelings in a strange way, as these short insignificant words also expressed something, Even when she wondered what sort of tea they gave you at Kew, he felt that something loomed up behind her words, and stood vast and solid behind them; and the mist very slowly rose and uncovered—O, Heavens, what were those shapes?—little white tables, and waitresses who looked first at her and then at him; and there was a bill that he would pay with a real two shilling piece, and it was real, all real, he assured himself, fingering the coin in his pocket, real to everyone except to him and to her; even to him it began to seem real; and then—but it was too exciting to stand and think any longer, and he pulled the parasol out of the earth with a jerk and was impatient to find the place where one had tea with other people, like other people.
"Come along, Trissie; it's time we had our tea."
"Wherever does one have one's tea?" she asked with the oddest thrill of excitement in her voice, looking vaguely round and letting herself be drawn on down the grass path, trailing her parasol, turning her head this way and that way, forgetting her tea, wishing to go down there and then down there, remembering orchids and cranes among wild flowers, a Chinese pagoda and a crimson crested bird; but he bore her on.
Thus one couple after another with much the same irregular and aimless movement passed the flower-bed and were enveloped in layer after layer of green blue vapour, in which at first their bodies had substance and a dash of colour, but later both substance and colour dissolved in the green-blue atmosphere. How hot it was! So hot that even the thrush chose to hop, like a mechanical bird, in the shadow of the flowers, with long pauses between one movement and the next; instead of rambling vaguely the white butterflies danced one above another, making with their white shifting flakes the outline of a shattered marble column above the tallest flowers; the glass roofs of the palm house shone as if a whole market full of shiny green umbrellas had opened in the sun; and in the drone of the aeroplane the voice of the summer sky murmured its fierce soul. Voices. Yes, voices. Wordless voices, breaking the silence suddenly with such depth of contentment, such passion of desire, or, in the voices of children, such freshness of surprise; breaking the silence? But there was no silence; all the time the motor omnibuses were turning their wheels and changing their gear; like a vast nest of Chinese boxes all of wrought steel turning ceaselessly one within another the city murmured; on the top of which the voices cried aloud and the petals of myriads of flowers flashed their colours into the air.
1. What do the young couple actually say to each other, and what do they do with the parasol?
2. What does the young man see 'loom up' behind Trissie's question about tea — and what does the story end with?
1. Almost nothing — 'Lucky it isn't Friday', 'What's sixpence anyway?', 'you know what I mean' — in toneless voices with long pauses. Together they press the end of her parasol into the earth, his hand on top of hers.
2. The whole ordinary future: little white tables, waitresses looking at them, a bill paid with a real two-shilling piece — 'real, all real'. The story ends with voices: wordless voices of contentment, desire and surprise, over the endless murmur of the city's buses, while the petals flash their colours into the air.
Woolf's sentences flow because she rarely stops to say and then or because. She hangs one action on another with participles: strolling carelessly, stained red and blue, having decided. Master this and your written English stops sounding like a list.
Put the verb into the participle form the meaning needs. Read each one aloud.
1. (stroll) six inches ahead, the man went on with his thoughts.
2. (stain) red, blue and yellow by the light, the snail lay still for two minutes.
3. (talk) incessantly, the old man hurried towards a woman in black.
4. (not / know) where one had tea at Kew, the girl let herself be drawn along.
5. (consider) every possible method, the snail crept beneath the leaf.
1. Strolling
2. Stained
3. Talking
4. Not knowing
5. Having considered
Decide whether the subject is doing the action (-ing) or having it done to them (-ed).
1. The couple, (press) the parasol into the earth, said almost nothing.
2. The flower-bed, (flash) with colour, drew every eye.
3. The voices, (break) by the noise of the buses, rose and fell.
4. (puzzle) by the old man's gestures, the two women looked at each other.
5. (follow) his steps closely, they could not decide whether he was mad.
1. pressing
2. flashing
3. broken
4. Puzzled
5. Following
Each sentence has the wrong subject doing the action. Say it correctly, then reveal a model.
1. Walking past the flower-bed, the snail was noticed by the woman.
2. Having finished his story, Eleanor was asked by Simon whether she thought of the past.
3. Pressed into the soft earth, the young man held the parasol still.
1. Walking past the flower-bed, the woman noticed the snail.
2. Having finished his story, Simon asked Eleanor whether she thought of the past.
3. Pressed into the soft earth, the parasol stayed still under the young man's hand. (or: Pressing the parasol into the soft earth, the young man held it still.)
The rule: whoever is doing the participle must be the subject of the main clause.
In the Speak tab, describe the garden the way Woolf does — hang each action on the last with a participle instead of stopping for and then.
Virginia Woolf (1882–1941) printed 'Kew Gardens' herself in 1919, by hand, on the small press she and her husband Leonard kept in their dining room; her sister Vanessa Bell drew the cover. It appeared six months after the end of the First World War — which is why an old man in a public garden is hearing the dead 'rolling between the hills like thunder', and why nobody around him finds that remarkable.
Nothing happens. Four couples pass a flower-bed; a snail decides how to get past a leaf. And yet the story contains a whole life: a middle-aged marriage remembering the roads not taken, a mind broken by grief, two working women whose talk is all names, and a boy and a girl at the very edge of the adult world, pressing a parasol into the earth because they cannot yet say anything. Woolf refused the usual machinery — plot, crisis, resolution — to show that meaning is not in what happens to us but in what passes through us while we walk. The last word is given to the city's buses, turning 'like a vast nest of Chinese boxes'; the voices, and the petals, flash above it.
This is the heart of the lesson — do all three out loud. The timer is there to keep you going: fill the time with detail rather than escaping it.
Tell 'Kew Gardens' to someone who has never read it — not as a plot, but as a walk: the flower-bed and the light → Simon and Eleanor, the buckle and the kiss → the snail → the old man and William → the two women → the young couple and the parasol → the voices and the city.
Use participle clauses to keep it flowing, and at least five key words (unfurl, straggle, incessantly, loom, ponderous, eccentric, stoical, deliberation, scrutinise, toneless).
Take a position: 'A story in which nothing happens is not a story — it is a painting.' Argue it with reference to Kew Gardens and to one story you love that does have a plot. Then argue the opposite for one minute: that plot is a distraction from what fiction is really for.
Describe a place by describing the people and creatures that pass through it in ten minutes — as Woolf does with a flower-bed. Use participle clauses to hang each detail on the last, and let one small thing (an insect, an object, a sound) be your snail.
Stuck for an idea? Pick one of these and run with it: