In the summer of 1518, the city of Strasbourg—a lively medieval hub within the Holy Roman Empire—found itself at the center of one of the strangest episodes in European history: the infamous Dancing Plague. It all started rather innocently when a woman named Frau Troffea stepped into the streets and began to dance with an intensity that was hard to ignore. There was no music, no celebration, no festival—just her, dancing wildly and uncontrollably, seemingly without any reason.
At first, onlookers might have thought her behavior was just a bit quirky. But as the hours ticked by and she showed no signs of stopping, worry began to creep in. What was even more alarming was how quickly this bizarre phenomenon spread. Within days, dozens of townsfolk had joined her, seemingly caught up in the same irresistible urge to dance. By late July, the numbers had swelled dramatically. Reports from that time suggest that by August, over 400 residents had fallen victim to this strange compulsion, transforming the city square into a surreal stage of constant movement, where men and women twirled, collapsed, and then staggered back up to dance once more.
The authorities were completely stumped. The dancers didn’t seem to be enjoying themselves; instead, they moved with vacant expressions and signs of distress. Some screamed as they danced, while others pleaded for help but couldn’t stop. People fainted from sheer exhaustion, and some even suffered strokes or heart attacks. A few reportedly danced themselves to death, though modern historians debate how accurate those claims really are.
In a desperate bid for answers, the Strasbourg city council sought the advice of the medical experts of the time. However, 16th-century medicine was still heavily rooted in ancient and medieval theories, particularly those of Hippocrates and Galen. Physicians diagnosed the dancers as suffering from “hot blood,” a supposed physiological imbalance believed to cause feverish behavior. In a tragically ironic twist, they suggested that more dancing might be the cure, hoping that indulging the afflicted would somehow alleviate their strange condition.
City officials took quite the drastic step by building stages and hiring professional dancers and musicians to support the victims, convinced that music could help them release the pent-up heat or bile from their bodies. Instead of alleviating the situation, this approach likely made the outbreak even worse.
While the incident in Strasbourg is the most well-known, it certainly wasn’t the only time something like this happened. Choreomania, or dancing mania, was reported several times across medieval and early modern Europe, especially between the 10th and 17th centuries. One significant outbreak took place in 1374 along the Rhine River, where towns in what we now call Germany and the Low Countries saw people dancing uncontrollably, often until they collapsed.
Back then, people had limited ways to make sense of such mass phenomena. Lacking modern psychology or neuroscience, they often turned to spiritual or supernatural explanations. Many believed these outbreaks were a form of divine punishment, while others thought the victims were possessed by demons or cursed by a saint. In response, communities frequently organized religious rituals like mass prayers, public processions, or even exorcisms, all in hopes of restoring spiritual balance and driving away evil forces.
A key figure in many of these interpretations was St. Vitus, a Christian martyr whose name became associated with involuntary movement disorders. Over time, the phrase “St. Vitus’s Dance” came to represent both neurological conditions (like Sydenham’s chorea) and these strange dance outbreaks. In some areas, people would make pilgrimages to St. Vitus’s shrines, seeking a cure. Others believed that simply invoking his name could break the curse, especially when those afflicted seemed unable to stop dancing on their own.
Historian John Waller has extensively studied the Strasbourg case and argues that what happened was a clear case of mass psychogenic illness, sometimes called mass hysteria. According to Waller, the convergence of extreme psychological stress, communal beliefs, and social expectations created the perfect storm for such an event. In 1518, Strasbourg was experiencing repeated crop failures, famine, and epidemics. These conditions left the populace physically weak, emotionally strained, and highly suggestible.
In this context, the idea of St. Vitus’s curse offered a convenient story for people to voice their distress. The dancing wasn’t just random; it was influenced by the cultural language of the time. People believed in possession and divine punishment, expecting these afflictions to show up in physical ways. So, the dancing plague can be seen as both a sign of psychological trauma and a ritualized way to express it.
Of course, not all scholars are on the same page. One popular alternative theory points to ergotism, which happens when people eat rye bread tainted with ergot, a fungus that can cause hallucinations similar to those induced by LSD. Ergot poisoning, often referred to as “St. Anthony’s Fire,” can lead to convulsions and muscle spasms, and has been linked to various instances of odd behavior in the Middle Ages. However, Waller and others push back against this idea, arguing that ergotism usually brings debilitating pain, hallucinations, and a loss of motor control—none of which match the coordinated and rhythmic movements seen in the dancers from Strasbourg.
Sociologist Robert Bartholomew offers yet another angle. He suggests that the dancers might have been swayed by sectarian religious movements, especially those on the fringes of orthodox Catholicism. In early 16th-century Europe, religious turmoil was on the rise. The Protestant Reformation was just around the corner, and the clash between traditional Catholic values and emerging Protestant beliefs created a lot of spiritual anxiety. In this environment, ecstatic dancing could have been seen by some as a form of divine expression or penance, particularly if they felt they were under judgment.
The intertwining of morality and disease can also be found in the works of Sebastian Brant, a native of Strasbourg and the author of The Ship of Fools (1494). Brant was quite critical of what he perceived as society’s moral decline. He viewed unrestrained dancing as a symbol of this decay, believing it was inspired more by Satan than by God. His viewpoint likely mirrored the broader cultural anxieties of the time, framing involuntary dance not merely as an illness but as a moral failing or a form of spiritual rebellion.
As time went on, the understanding of choreomania began to shift from religious explanations to more medical perspectives. The groundbreaking Swiss physician Paracelsus, who lived during this era, sought a more systematic approach to these disorders. While his ideas might seem odd today, he suggested that certain physical “laughing veins” could create sensations that compelled people to dance. His work marked a significant step toward a more naturalistic and empirical way of inquiry.
Even after centuries of investigation, the true cause of the Dancing Plague of 1518 remains a mystery. It lies at the intersection of medical anomalies, psychological trauma, and cultural beliefs. What makes this phenomenon particularly intriguing is how it highlights the deep connection between the mind, body, and society. These dancers weren’t just putting on a show or celebrating; they were caught in a genuine, physical expression of collective distress, shaped by the cultural context of their time.
Eventually, the outbreak began to wane as summer came to a close. There are few records detailing what happened to the dancers afterward. Some may have fully recovered, while others likely faced long-lasting effects. Municipal records indicate that a shrine to St. Vitus was built as one of the final efforts to stop the epidemic, suggesting that spiritual solutions lingered in the public’s mind longer than medical ones.
Today, the story of Strasbourg’s dancing plague is often met with incredulity or dark amusement. Yet beneath its sensational surface lies a profound lesson about the human condition. In times of crisis, people often seek meaning and expression in ways that defy logic but remain deeply rooted in their cultural and emotional landscape. Whether understood as hysteria, poisoning, protest, or prayer, the dancing plague was ultimately a vivid—and tragic—testament to the lengths the human psyche can go when pushed beyond its limits.
In retrospect, the Dancing Plague of 1518 stands not merely as a curious footnote in history, but as a dramatic case study in mass psychology, social stress, and the power of belief. It reminds us that even in the absence of a visible enemy, communities can be overwhelmed by invisible forces—fear, despair, faith—that drive them into the most extraordinary behaviors. Far from being just a mystery of the past, it serves as a mirror for modern society’s own responses to collective trauma and uncertainty.
Whether understood as hysteria, poisoning, protest, or prayer, the dancing plague was ultimately a vivid—and tragic—testament to the lengths the human psyche can go when pushed beyond its limits.