British Accent Shadowing | The Picture of Dorian Gray | Learn RP Pronunciation – Part 1

Welcome to British Accent Shadowing — your guided practice for mastering the Received

Pronunciation (RP) accent, intonation, and the natural rhythm of spoken British English,

with me, Ashley Howard, your expert voice coach. In today’s episode, we begin exploring The Picture

of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde, a classic of English literature renowned for its rich,

expressive, and elegant language. First, I'll read the full passage

aloud so you can absorb the rhythm and melody of authentic RP English. Next,

we’ll break it down line by line, so you can repeat after me, refining your pronunciation,

clarity, and fluency. Finally, we'll practise the passage together at natural speaking speed.

There's also a free PDF download with the full text and vocabulary notes in

the description below. Let’s get started.

The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses,

and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden,

there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac,

or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn.

From the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he was lying,

smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes,

Lord Henry Wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured

blossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed

hardly able to bear the burden of a beauty so flamelike as theirs.

Now and then, the fantastic shadows of birds in flight

flitted across the long tussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window,

producing a kind of momentary Japanese effect, and making him think of those pallid, jade-faced

painters of Tokyo who, through the

medium of an art that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense of swiftness and motion.

The sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their way through the long unmown grass,

or circling with monotonous insistence round the dusty gilt horns of the straggling woodbine,

seemed to make the stillness more oppressive.

The dim roar of London was like the bourdon note of a distant organ.

In the centre of the room, clamped to an upright easel,

stood the full-length portrait of a young man of extraordinary personal beauty.

In front of it, some little distance away, was sitting the artist himself, Basil Hallward,

whose sudden disappearance some years ago caused,

at the time, such public excitement and gave rise to so many strange conjectures.

As the painter looked at the gracious and comely form he had so skilfully mirrored in his art,

a smile of pleasure passed across his face, and seemed about to linger there.

But he suddenly started up, and closing his eyes, placed his fingers upon the lids,

as though he sought to imprison within his brain some curious dream

from which he feared he might awake.

“It is your best work, Basil, the best thing you have ever done,” said Lord Henry languidly.