The play opens on Agamemnon's palace in Argos. The time is just minutes before the fall of Troy. It is night. A lonely watchman on the roof of the palace, under the starry sky, soliloquizes about his weariness. He has been enlisted by the queen to look out for a beacon of fire, a signal that the war has finally come to an end. The Argive soldiers have been at Troy for ten years now. The Watchman's fatigue and melancholy encapsulate the sentiments of most of Argos. Her citizens have been awaiting the return of their compatriots and progeny for far too long. Many have almost lost hope.

The Watchman sees a light flare up in the distance. He compares it to dawn. He thinks first about the queen and her joy, then about the return of the king. Overcome with eagerness to relay the good news, he leaves to find the queen.

The Chorus enters and relates some history about the war and Argos. They mention Menelaus and Agamemnon, brothers, and describe their departure from Argos. Metaphorically, the war cries of the two kings become the shrieks of eagles after the loss of their young. The ostensible cause of the war-Helen's abduction by Paris-is briefly hinted at. The Chorus speaks ominously; they anticipate some vague reckoning for the house of Atreus (the house of Agamemnon and Menelaus) and thus for Argos.

Clytaemestra enters but does not speak. The Chorus continues its exposition, now directing it toward the queen. They ask about the sacrifices she has ordered in the city. The Chorus is not aware the signal has arrived and the war is over. The portent of the hare-a pregnant hare from whom the fetus was torn out-is discussed. It occurred just before the war, when a seer read it and forecasted disaster for Argos. The Chorus then relates the historical event, the playing out of the portent, in which Agamemnon chose to sacrifice his young daughter Iphigenia for the sake of the war effort. The Chorus narrates that fateful day with words full of pity and regret. Finally, Clytaemestra is addressed directly, when the Chorus commends her on her just rule in Agamemnon's absence.

Clytaemestra announces the end of the war. The Chorus hears the news with reserved joy; they can hardly believe it. The queen follows with a lengthy, poetic account of the transmission of the signal blaze from Troy, from beacon to beacon, and finally to Argos. The Chorus is so excited they ask her to retell it, and she obliges. She imagines what it must be like in Troy at the moment. But she also warns that the Argives must not defile the Trojan gods in their plundering of the city.

Analysis

The monumental, dramatic timing of the opening of the play, given as "directly after the fall of Troy," verily cannot be ignored. We are on the heels of one of the greatest wars in western history, and without a doubt the greatest in classical antiquity. The Watchman can be thought of as a type; in many ways he represents all those citizens and members of Agamemnon's court who yearn for the return of their estranged king and their countrymen. In his soliloquy, the repetition of words related to restlessness and sleeplessness, to tired vigilance, and to disquiet establishes the mood in Argos. It is one of grieving and longing. Indeed, the Watchman is even weary of the rotations of the stars.

The play's initial tone is melancholy, reflective, and somewhat ponderous. That is, until the blaze is spotted. Then we encounter an important ambiguity. The high excitement for the taking of the Troy is subsequently undermined by anxiety. The Watchman and the Chorus both are concerned about the condition of the returning king and his men and about the return itself. More important is the second concern; it calls our attention to the function of the past and memory in the play. No one in Argos can forget the horrible events leading up to war; particularly, Iphigeneia's sacrifice (see below). An open wound, the memory of this tragic murder seems to be gnawing at everyone's conscience and ruining the celebration. For the sacrifice has tainted the house, the ill-fated House of Atreus (a favorite subject of ancient Greek tragedians), and requires rectification.

Notably, we see in this section the first mention of the queen as a lady with "male strength of heart." This has to do with her role as interim ruler of Argus in the long absence of her husband. Apparently, she has filled his position very well. But there is also some discussion by the Chorus as to whether it is not "unnatural" for a woman to act in the traditional capacity of a man.

With the Chorus, we should be aware that, as a convention of Greek tragedy, they (or frequently, "he") function as a kind of commentator on the action-offering the reasonable, often sagacious perspectives of experienced citizens of the state. At other times the Chorus appears as the actual embodiment of the state, voicing its general hopes and worries. An extended metaphor in one their early speeches seeks to compare prematurely dead Argives, youths killed in battle, with fledglings eagles fallen from the nest. This passage is particularly significant, for it introduces a major theme: "young perished." (see below)

Beginng from line one, when the Watchman sees the fire as a kind of dawn, the play's symbols accumulate and build on one another. A second important symbol is the eagles and the fledglings. A third appears when the Chorus recollects the omen of the hare. The unborn fetus ripped from the hare's womb works equally well as a symbol for Iphigeneia's sacrifice and for the Argive youths who went to war and died under the leadership of Agamemnon (one of the eagles).

Finally, the sacrifice of Iphigeneia warrants explanation. Although the story would be infamous to an ancient audience, it is not necessarily so now. In short, on the day Greek fleet was to set sail for Troy, they met with extremely unfavorable winds and were stuck at port. Morale dropped quickly and supplies began to rot. A seer informed Agamemnon that if he sacrificed his daughter to Artemis, the winds would calm. Agamemnon, anguishing over this dilemma, perceived disaster in both choices. Ultimately, ambition won the day: Iphigeneia was murdered; the winds abated; and the fleet sailed.

The Chorus begins with a very long speech. First they moralize the fall of Troy as divine punishment for the abduction of Helen by Paris. They say that no man can escape atonement for wrongdoing: the gods see all. A brief summary of the events of the abduction are given. The Chorus is most interested in how Paris betrayed his host's (Menelaus) hospitality by stealing his wife. Helen is also condemned for treachery and blamed for the death of so many Argive sons.

For a short time, the Chorus separates into several individuals. Once voice questions whether the beacon is really true. Another man seconds this doubt. A third and a fourth say that since the message comes by way of a woman, it cannot be trusted. And the final voice, who shares the same skepticism as the rest, directs them toward the Herald who has just arrived. From him, they hope to gain a more dependable story.

The Herald enters and speaks. He is an Argive soldier who, gone away young, has come back a mature man. First thing the Herald gives copious thanks to the gods for his having returned to home soil alive. He tells the Chorus how he had all but despaired of every seeing Argos again. The Herald then informs them of Agamemnon's imminent arrival in the city and asks that they show him the proper admiration. Finally, the Chorus hears from the Herald some of the details of the sack of Troy. During the plundering, the Argives (contrary to the wishes expressed by Clytaemestra earlier) destroyed the Trojan altars and places of worship. But the Herald says that anything Troy suffered, it deserved.

The Chorus asks the Herald how much he missed his country while away The Herald admits to a great, almost unbearable longing for home. This pleases the Chorus immensely, and they quickly share the deep feelings of loss and incompletion they experienced in the absence of men like the Herald (their collective sons). Peace, security, and rest may now come to the state since vitality and leadership have returned-at least, the Chorus hopes as much. For the Herald, his return to Argos means relief from the "nights exposed, the cramped sea-quarters, the foul beds," etc. He is eager to retell all the terrifying and uncomfortable trials of war through which he and his companions lived; he unburdens himself. Happiness in Argos, he concludes, is his just reward.

Clytaemestra appears onstage and speaks. She reproves the Chorus for not having believed her announcement that Troy had fallen. Though the Chorus thinks she'll want to hear the Herald's story, Clytaemestra would rather have it from her husband. She expresses her strong desire to receive him lavishly. Further, she proclaims her complete fidelity to her husband over ten year separation. No other man and no new shame, she vaunts to the Chorus and the Herald, has entered the house. Then Clytaemestra steps to the back of the stage.

The Chorus and the Herald continue their dialogue. Specifically, the Chorus makes inquiries into the fate of Menelaus. The Herald relates his disappearance at sea during a bad storm-no one but the gods know his whereabouts, or whether he is dead or alive. The section closes with the Herald's account of the storm, the wreckage, the numerous deaths. Both characters become downcast, but the Herald reassures the worrisome Chorus, reminding them of Menelaus' strength and fortitude. The Herald exits.

Analysis

The lengthy speech made by the Chorus at the beginning of this section includes a moral evaluation of Paris and Helen. The unwholesome "fatal marriage," the abduction and rape of Helen by Paris was the direct cause of the Trojan war. The story goes that Paris, prince of Troy, was asked by three goddesses, Aphrodite, Hera, and Athen, to choose the most beautiful among them. He chose Aphrodite, who, as a reward, promised to procure for him the most beautiful mortal woman. This happened to Menelaus's wife, Helen. Although happily married, under the influence of Aphrodite, Helen fell in love with Paris and allowed him to carry her off to Troy. Menelaus then called on the Greek chieftains, most of whom had once been Helen's suitors, to help him attack Troy and win back his wife.

Because of Helen's abduction, the Chorus makes much of betrayals between guests and their hosts. In particular, they vehemently criticize how Paris ungraciously stole Helen from his host, Menelaus. The Argives are also called "hosts," and later, when they arrive at Troy, "guests." Considered as homeland, Argos and its citizens are in fact a host. Clytaemnestra will soon play host her husband. And good hospitality, a traditional Greek virtue, is mentioned by the Chorus several times with reference to Zeus. Here, we see the development of another sub-theme. At the center of the host/guest paradigm seems to be concern for trust and stability. In every case, crime is perpetrated through the dangerous betrayal of a certain fundamental social relationship. For instance, a father like Agamemnon is by definition not supposed to kill his own daughter. When this happens, it is always at the expense of social harmony, as the Chorus is at pains to point out.

"The curse of the people," as the Chorus calls it, is in fact another expression of the death of Argive youths at Troy. As stated above, Argos has lost its children. Thousands of youths left their homeland to fight for Agamemnon. Their deaths were untimely and, as frequently stated by the Chorus, in some ways unnecessary (or at least extremely unfortunate). If the Chorus represents the older generation of Argive citizens, the soldiers are the next, now rather decimated, one. Moreover, the Herald can be thought of as the second generation's singular voice or representative. This explains the touching sentimentality we feel in the reunion between Chorus and Herald-they are very like father and son.

Clytaemestra's speech including her vaunt of perfect fidelity highlights certain noteworthy aspects of her character. First, she is quick to rebuff the Chorus for having doubted her truthfulness regarding the fire. She is bold. She makes it clear that stereotypical views of the flightiness of women do not apply to her. Indeed, for ten years now she has been ruling Argos. But there is another side to this. While undoubtedly of a strong and willful character, Clytaemestra seems somehow too eager to deny her "womanliness." We get a sense of this in several peculiar comments by the Chorus and some by Clytaemestra herself. As we shall see, the ten year stint in an almost exclusively male role has worked profound changes on the queen.

After hearing the Herald's lamentable news about Menelaus, the Chorus launches into execrations of the adulterous Helen. Next, the Chorus considers the decimation of Troy, saying, basically, that it got what it deserved. For the Trojans had too loudly celebrated the fatal and transgressive marriage. A remarkable parable in which a lion, having been affectionately reared by humans as cub, later reverts to instinct and tears its hosts apart. This is then equated with Helen's sojourn in Troy.

The Chorus finds a new topic in aging pride, and its main folly, daring. A warning against this kind of "dark action" is issued. Finally, the Chorus speaks of righteousness, the inevitable virtue--the one that ultimately wins out--because it is divine. Just as the Chorus reaches this, its characteristic conclusion, Agamemnon enters in chariot. Beside him sits Cassandra, Priam's (King of Troy) daughter.

The Chorus seeks to honor and welcome their long-estranged king. But in the middle of this greeting, the Chorus adds some words about an original displeasure. Though Agamemnon won, the Chorus reminds him that it was not without great cost to everyone, including his citizens. Agamemnon brushes the Chorus aside in order to give thanks to the gods. They are the ones responsible for his victory. Agamemnon orders an assembly so that he may assess the state of Argos. He intends to "burn, or amputate, with kind intention" any degenerate parts of the kingdom.

Clytaemestra enters and at first addresses herself to the assembly. However, her subject is appropriately the return of her beloved husband. The queen's talent for narration resurfaces in this passage, as she delivers a stirring oration. She goes into detail about her suffering in his absence--worrying, waiting, hoping that Agamemnon would survive. Orestes, their son, had to be sent away because of rumors of revolution in Argos. Toward the end, Clytaemestra leaps into grandiloquence. Finally, she asks Agamemnon to walk into the palace on a crimson carpet.

At once Agamemon refuses his wife's invitation on grounds that it befits a god, not a man. Ashamed, Clytaemestra incites an argument with her husband, trying to bend his will to hers. The king ultimately acquiesces; he removes his shoes and treads on the tapestries barefoot. The reunited couple then go into the house together, and the Chorus begins to voice its enduring anxiety.

The Chorus wonders why the Agamemnon's arrival has aggravated rather than relieved their apprehension. Their primary concern is blood revenge, for Iphigeneia's sacrifice has not yet been requited. Clytaemestra, emerging from inside, tells Cassandra she may enter the house as a slave. Cassandra, however, will not move or speak, which strongly angers the queen. Both Clytaemestra and the Chorus speculate on whether Cassandra is deaf, savage, or insolent. Sufficiently frustrated, Clytaemestra leaves the captive alone with the Chorus.

Analysis

The parable of the lion cub allegorizes the murderous betrayal of hospitable fostering. Reminding us of earlier passages-most commonly spoken by the Chorus-the parable provides further evidence for the host/guest paradigm. In this case, the lion is said to be Helen. She was received joyously by the Trojans, who were enamored with her beauty and charm. Yet, very soon, they discovered that Helen (like the Trojan horse) concealed their doom-that she brought, contrary to those superficial qualities, unimaginable carnage and destruction.

Daring, in its negative, prideful, hubristic sense, is used several times to describe Agamemnon's as well as Helen's (earlier) departure for Troy. This is a fault heavily criticized by the Chorus throughout the play. The Chorus describes "daring" as "dark action," as reckless, selfish, and excessive. Specifically, the quality is associated with mature males who vainly aspire for youthful adventure. Here, we glimpse the central flaw in Agamemnon's character, at least in the eyes of the polity. The king's sacrifice of his daughter perpetuates the curse on the house of Atreus.

At this point, the frequent and repetitive images of light and darkness, night giving birth to dawn, or night as the mother of dawn, should be familiar to the reader. The Watchman speaks of it, as does Clytaemestra numerous times. And there is the Chorus's, "All will come clear in the next dawn's sunlight." Agamemnon is heralded as "bearing light in gloom." In her greeting, Clytaemestra calls him, "splendor of daybreak shining from the night of storm." What this does is build up or accumulate symbols. Thus "night" denotes anything from the sorrowful state of the house of Atreus, to the kingdom, to the war. Light is, on the contrary, everything positive in the play. The return of Agamemnon (as the restoration of leadership), the end of the war, relief from sorrow, rebirth, etc. We should also consider false symbols, for example, the beacon flame. Though light, the fire is perhaps a false "dawn," as opposed to the one the Argives have been awaiting. Furthermore, the resilient skepticism of the Chorus, which repeatedly questions the "reality" of the fire signal, lend support to early doubts.

The tone of Agamemnon's as he enters should be well noted. It is that of an austere soldier, a warrior. Clytaemestra's lavish reception contrasts sharply with her husband's abstemious character and his initial reluctance to tread the red carpet. His accusation that she is trying to "soften" him is also important. Agamemnon is callous insofar as he has executed his daughter. "Will" is mentioned in this section more than once, and we know that ambition and daring are the chief excesses of the will, i.e. of a hardened soldier. In short, Agamemnon's lack of pity is criticized by both the Chorus and his wife.

After Clytaemestra storms off into the house, the Chorus behaves tenderly toward Cassandra. She has obviously suffered greatly from the fall of her city and the disintegration of her family. Finally, she speaks, but her words appear nonsensical. She hails Apollo, accusing him of her ruin. Cassandra recognizes the ills and corruption of the house of Atreus. Inexplicably, she even knows the house's bloody history. Though Cassandra's prophetic statements seem clear, the Chorus cannot understand them.

In agony, Cassandra predicts her own death as well as Agamemnon's. She sees some kind of net or trap, one set by a demonic woman who for the moment goes unnamed. The Chorus struggles to find any meaning in her inspired effusions. Cassandra then laments the fall of her city and remembers her father. Hoping for enhanced clarity and credibility, Cassandra at one point summarizes the story of Thyestes and Atreus and the old sin (see below). The Chorus is amazed at the intimate knowledge this foreigner possess of their legacy. Yet they remain skeptical.

Cassandra's own history follows. She explains how she became a prophet. Apollo descended, seduced her, and gave her the faculty of divination. However, because this event trespassed a vow she'd made to her husband, Cassandra's prophecies were rendered unintelligible. Thus the truth of what she says is incomprehensible to all auditors. She alone must bear it. Tormented by another string of forecasts, Cassandra speaks of a certain woman's savage thirst for revenge. This woman's bloodlust, she says, is at the heart of the disastrous future.

But the Chorus is bewildered and incapable of reading her impassioned declarations. Their interpretations are always somehow muddled. Finally, Cassandra resigns herself to her fate. She only asks that death be quick and painless. The Chorus remarks on her bravery. With a few profound last words on the vanity of human existence, Cassandra goes slowly into the house. She has no choice but to face the inevitable slaughter.

Following a brief speech on Agamemnon, the Chorus then hears a noise from inside the house. It is Agamemnon crying that he has been struck a deadly blow. The Chorus is terribly panicked and does not know what to do. Meanwhile, Agamemnon cries out again after receiving a second blow. Soon, the Chorus dissolves into several different, though equally ineffectual, voices. The members of the Chorus debate over whether to storm the house or call for help. They also mention several times their fear that Agamemnon's murder spells tyranny for Argos. Then the doors swing open.

Analysis

Cassandra's string of prophecies dramatically heightens the sense of imminent disaster that has been steadily building since the very beginning of the play. The pace moves rapidly in this section. The speeches are more clipped, especially Cassandra's utterances. She reaches an extremely high pitch and intensity as she expresses now abstrusely, now . with sharp clarity, the anguish she experiences because of her unique faculty. Some disaster will befall the house and very soon; it is a foregone conclusion. But tragedy grinds on the inexorable, on Fate; and once the machine is in motion, it can be delayed but not stopped.

In fact, the long dialogue between Cassandra and the Chorus serves as an indispensible structural device. While we, the audience, remain distracted by the raving of Cassandra, offstage Agamemnon is meanwhile being seduced and murdered. The technique is classically Greek. Often in tragedies, the most central actions are related by a messenger or at least spoken about in retrospect. Thus the focus is taken off the action itself, and we are forced to concentrate on consequences.

We hear more of the sickly, ill-fated house of Atreus, a favorite theme among ancient Greek tragedians. Its early history, which Cassandra speaks in one her prophecies, is appropriately dark and unnatural. First, Atreus, the father of Agamemnon and Menelaus, had his wife seduced by his brother, Thyestes. Incensed over this unforgivable insult, Atreus got his revenge at banquet when he served Thyestes the boiled flesh of his own two sons. Later, Thyestes's third and only surviving son, Aegisthus, killed Atreus to avenge this atrocity. In addition to Agamemnon's sacrifice of Iphigeneia, these old sins still hang over the house.

The utter confusion of the Chorus following the cries from a dying Agamemon may illustrate its inability, as an embodiment of the state, to govern itself. The Chorus, as we know, is composed of older Argive citizens. Thus they are less vital and less likely to take decisive action. Indeed, they panic. As they discuss whether or not and how to answer the first cry, the king is dealt a second blow. We see how helpless the body becomes when the head is cut off. Though this passage includes the play's climax, there is something almost comical about it. Yet at the same time, the Chorus' futile behavior belies their terror at what is to come: first dissolution, then tyranny.

The doors of the palace open on the bodies of Agamemnon and Cassandra. Clytaemestra is standing over them menacingly. In her first few lines the queen reveals how all this time she has been dissembling, waiting, plotting. Defiantly, she confesses to the murders and wishes to "unsay" all the lies she was forced, out of necessity, to maintain. Her trap, she says, has finally been sprung. There is no longer any need to pretend. Clytaemestra seems to enjoy describing the details of the murder, especially how her husband's blood spattered on her. Though only two cries were heard outside the hall, she struck him thrice.

The Chorus is stunned. They immediately rebuke her vaunting such a heinous crime. But the queen argues that he deserved it. The Chorus threatens and accuses Clytaemestra of selfish action, of murder committed out of a vengeance. But Clytaemestra refuses to allow this facile judgement to pass. She claims that she was an instrument of fate, that justice for her child's sacrifice compelled her to strike. There is, however, something disturbing and unwholesome in Clytaemestra's speeches.

The Chorus compares Clytaemestra to Helen and condemns them both. The replies comes that they should not blame Helen so much, for she too was an instrument. After calling on Zeus for guidance, the Chorus begins to lament the death of their fallen king. But the Chorus stops suddenly, unsure how to proceed. The meaning of Agamemnon's death has not been clearly determined yet.

Clytaemestra holds that Iphigeneia's death demanded her husband's. She is adamant. As for Agamemnon's burial, the queen sees no reason for concern. Together, the Chorus and she can handle the affair quietly and officiously. The Chorus, on the other hand, wants nothing to do with her. And although they begin to come around to Clytaemestra's side, they are still worried about the curse.

Just then, Aegisthus, son of Thyestes and Clytaemestra's secret lover, enters with his bodyguards behind him. He rejoices over the dead king and lauds Clytaemestra's fine execution. He retells the story of Atreus and Thyestes, then relates that he was the one responsible for planning the regicide. Finding a braver voice, the Chorus insults Aegisthus for not having killed Agamemnon himself. Aegisthus, for his part, mocks the age and impotence of the old Chorus. He promises to silence any dissent with cruel slavery. The Chorus voices its hope for Orestes' return. Clytaemestra intercedes; and after cooling Aegisthus, reminding him that they now have the power, the doors to the palace close.

Analysis

A series of complex questions arise in the wake of Agamemnon's murder. Most of them are introduced by the Chorus. We might usefully think of this as the beginning of a kind of internal interpretation. The repercussions of Clytaemestra's action must be determined in order for the final "healing" to come to Argos. Is the murder, as she says, the will of the gods? Or, as the Chorus asserts, an act of cruel, bloodthirsty vengeance? These are crucial ethical questions.

Following the death of Agamemnon, the Chorus, as representative of the state, or society, finds itself in a state of chaos and disarray. They cannot decipher the ultimate meaning of the climax. Was it necessary? Did the gods ordain it? How should they mourn Agamemnon? All of these tricky questions need untangling, and most of them remain unanswered at the end of the play. In fact, this is as it should be. Explication of the crime committed in Agamemnon forms the subject of the next two plays of the Oresteia. But it costs us little to speculate. Judging from the pleasure Clytaemestra derives in the carrying out of the murder, it is reasonable to assume she has not acted by divine sanction alone. Furthermore, there are the prophecies of Cassandra, Aegisthus' tyranny over the Chorus, and the anticipated return of Orestes that foreshadow Clytaemestra's culpability and her eventual demise at the hands of her son (in the next two plays).

Ideas concerning womanliness and manliness underlie much of the social discussion in the play. We know that Clytaemestra has taken on a traditionally male role, ruler, in the absence of her husband. Her "male strength of heart" is remarked upon early in the play by the Chorus. At various other points, she appears, in the context, conspicuously unwomanly. Furthermore, she has been robbed of her child-unmothered, symbolically speaking, by the same husband. Thus her social role is undetermined. As we reach the climax, it becomes apparent that one internal interpretation of the "cause" for Clytaemestra's crime is that she has lost or left her gender. Clytaemestra argues her blamelessness: "Can you claim I have done this?"-and in a way she is justified. But her cold premeditation and her infidelity far from exonerate.

Females in the play are almost unilaterally adulterous. Clytaemestra being the most obvious, there is also Helen, the "cause" of the Trojan War in the eyes of the Chorus. But we remember that Helen was abducted by Paris and bewitched by a god. And Cassandra's illicit affair, as well, was compelled by a god. Although the Chorus would like to push all the blame on women, Clytaemestra objects at one significant moment to such a facile explanation. Thus the pattern of treacherous and unfaithful women is rather unstable. In other words, within the play itself, the stereotype is under criticism.

Agamemnon, the "man" of the play, embodies his own breed of violence-callousness, ambition, over masculinity-the folly of the warrior. His departure and the sacrifice of Iphigeneia causes the instability of Argive society, his wife's unsexing, and his own downfall. Looking ahead to the return of Orestes, it is possible to see how the avenging son, a male, will restore patriarchal order. After all, Aegisthus' virility is ridiculed by the Chorus, who recognizes cowardice in his failure to execute his plan himself. Surely, he will not bring the relief, the cure, so badly needed in grief-stricken Argos.

• Biography of Aeschylus
• About Agamemnon
• Character List
• Major Themes
• Short Summary
• Full Summary and Analysis
• Summary and Analysis of Section 1: From the first line to Clytaemestra's: "Of all good things to wish this is my dearest choice"
• Summary and Analysis of Section 2: From the Chorus' line: "My lady, no grave man could speak with better / grace" to the exit of the Herald
• Summary and Analysis of Section 3: From the exit of the Herald to Clytaemestra's exit after speaking to Cassandra
• Summary and Analysis of Section 4: From Clytaemestra's exit after she speaks to Cassandra to the opening of the palace doors after Agamemnon's cries
• Summary and Analysis of Section Five: From the opening of the palace doors on the bodies of Agamemnon and Cassandra to the end of the play
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